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Greg Klymkiw picks The Film Corner's Top 20 Documentaries of 2014 - Another Stellar Year For a Vital Genre

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Documentary cinema in 2014 was so powerful that it seems almost ludicrous to even attempt a list honouring only 10 movies, so I've decided to include a few categories here that are comprised of a variety of films within them which I've chosen to bundle together and furthermore present my picks as the Top 20 Documentaries of 2014. The list will be in alphabetical order by category and title.


Documentaries on the Artistic Process:

Altman
Dir. Ron Mann
Focusing on the genius maverick director, the picture exceeds all expectations by being the most perfect film biography of Robert Altman that one could ever want.

Art and Craft
Dir. Sam Cullman, Jennifer Grausman
Co-Dir/Editor: Mark Becker
This is the stuff movies (and by extension, dreams) are made of. Filmmakers Cullman, Grausman and Becker have fashioned a thoroughly engaging portrait of an artist as an old man, but not just any garden variety artist. Landis is a sweet, committed, meticulous and gentle craftsman of the highest order. In fact, he's no mere copy cat, he is an artist - reproducing with astonishing detail work that touches and moves, not only himself, but millions. Furthermore, he might well be the ultimate performance artist insofar as his entire life seems like a veritable work of art and certainly, his "cons" in costume are also art of the highest order.

Giuseppe Makes a Movie
Dir. Adam Rifkin
This superbly directed films is a wild, wooly and supremely entertaining portrait of underground filmmaker Giuseppe Andrews, a fringe-player of the highest order. Out of his fevered imagination, he crafts work that captures a very desperate, real and sad truth about America's fringes that are, frankly, not so outside the Status Quo as the country descends even deeper into a kind of Third World divide twixt rich and poor. Through Adam Rifkin's lens we see America according to Andrews, a country rife with abject poverty, alcoholism, exploitation, cruelty and violence. Trailer parks and cheap motels provide the visual backdrop by which Andrews etches his original portraits of depravity, but they are ALWAYS tinged with humanity.

Life Itself
Dir. Steve James
This documentary portrait of writer Roger Ebert is a beautiful, touching and heart wrenching portrait of a man that most anyone who loves movies worshipped and/or admired. Shot primarily during the last few months of his life, it focuses on Ebert's indomitable will to live and allows allows him to take on an aura of saintliness that seems perfectly apt.

Natan
Dir. David Cairns, Paul Duane
This profoundly moving and imaginative film expertly places Bernard Natan, the Father of French Cinema, back where he truly belongs. Though the visionary Romanian-Jew in Paris was eventually the victim of Nazi genocide in Auschwitz, his very memory was erased and tarnished by antisemitism perpetrated by the Vichy and a contemporary academic's boneheaded scholarship. Cairns and Duane have created a brilliant artistic vessel to tell Natan's story.

To Be Takei
Dir. Jennifer M. Kroot
This is as close as we're likely to get to actually being able to mainline actor/activist George Takei as if he were the purest form of heroin imaginable. By focusing so resolutely on his achievements with all the aplomb of a master storyteller, director Kroot has made a movie that not only dazzles, informs and entertains, but is - without question - as important a film as any of us really want all of our film experiences to be.

Documentaries on Eastern Europe:

The Condemned
Dir. Nick Read
We are in Russia, or if you will, Hell. For many who are enclosed within the perimeter of fencing and locked gates, this will be their Purgatory until death takes them to the fiery eternal abode of Mephistopheles. Those who are not here for life, came in as young men and will leave as old men. This is the Federal Penal Colony No. 56 in Central Russia, surrounded by hundreds of square miles of deep forest in the Russian taiga. There's only one road in and one road out. The nearest populated community is a seven-hour drive away. The temperatures here frequently dip to 40 below zero. There's no escape.

Maidan
Dir. Sergey Loznitsa
Using long takes, beautifully composed with no camera movement, Loznitsa captures key moments, both specific historical incidents and deeply, profoundly moving human elements during the Ukrainian Revoultion. As such, it evokes stirring and fundamental narrative, thematic and emotional sensations which place us directly in the eye of the storm.

Love Me
Dir. Jonathon Narducci
The world of mail-order brides is the focus of Jonathon Narducci's thorough and affecting film. Using the online dating service "A Foreign Affair" as the door into this world, Love Me focuses upon five men (3 schlubs, 2 not-so-much) who dump thousands upon thousands of dollars on the company's services. From membership fees to per-transaction fees for the online aspect of the service to the actual whirlwind guided tours to Ukraine, Narducci expertly wends his way through a massive amount of material and subjects, but does so with impeccable skill and movie-making savvy.

Ukraine is not a Brothel
Dir. Kitty Green
The unconventional feminist activists who are the subjects of this important documentary are, via the commitment and artistry of the movie's director, proof positive that Ukraine must be personified as matriarchal, rather than patriarchal, if it is to have any potential to survive as a nation at all. As such, the country must not be bought and sold, but will need, in order to stave off the horse trading at every level, the political will of its people to thrive beyond all shackles, beyond all influence, save for that which comes from within.

Documentaries on Latin America:

The Engineer
Dir. Dir. Juan Passarelli, Mathew Charles
This superbly wrought motion picture focuses on one horrific aspect of America's legacy in El Salvador. The suffering experienced is palpable. As the murder rate laughably goes down, the missing person rates climb astronomically. It is up to one man, the subject of the film's title to forensically investigate and exhume the bodies of those who go missing.

Marmato
Dir. Marc Grieco
When 500 years of your ancestors have lived on one of the largest, richest mountains of gold in the world, the last thing you want are foreign investors, corporate pigs and a corrupt government decimating your homes and livelihood. This, however, has been the reality suffered by the people who do most of the living, working and dying in Marmato, Colombia. To say this film is an important film reflecting the exploitation of the poor by the rich would be an understatement.

Documentaries on Native Peoples:

Pine Ridge
Dir. Anna Eborn
Life pulsates at the heart of this powerful evocation of the land's natural beauty that's mirrored in the light of her subjects' eyes. Many look forward to assuming and/or resuming an exploration of the world beyond, but always acknowledge the pull of the reservation to bring them back to a home, grudgingly given to them with the spilling of blood.

Trick or Treaty?
Dir. Alanis Obomsawin
Focusing upon a massive peaceful protest in Ottawa that's designed to force Canadian Chancellor Stephen Harper to meet face-to-face with First Nations Chiefs most affected by the over-100-year-old James Bay Treaty, designed and implemented to steal land and not allow any meaningful sharing in the decision-making process of said land. The result has been abject poverty, skyrocketing rates of suicide and environmental destruction, all of which affects not just our First Nations, but ALL Canadians.


Documentaries on a Variety of Subjects:

The Boy From Geita
Dir. Vic Sarin
In Tanzania, if you're born with albinism, a rare genetic condition that severely lightens the pigmentation of your skin and renders you susceptible to dangerous, damaging effects from the sun's rays, you are less than zero.For as long as albinos have existed in this part of the African continent, they have been subject to prejudice at best and at worst, mutilation or murder. The legendary cinematographer and filmmaker Vic Sarin presents a story that is, at once appallingly grotesque, yet also, out of the dark side of the human spirit is a tale of profound and deep compassion.

The Overnighters
Dir. Jesse Moss
The fine, God-fearing, deeply religious citizens of Williston, North Dakota, do not extend Christian charity to the homeless. They just want to run them out of town. This moving and at times, deeply disturbing documentary focuses on one man who cares, Pastor Jay Reinke, an intelligent and deeply committed man of God who opens the doors of his parish to the homeless.

RUN RUN IT'S HIM
Dir. Matthew (Matt) Pollack
Co-Producer/Cinematographer: Jamie Popowich
This is an obsessive, hilarious, shocking, touching, imaginative, inventive and altogether astonishing personal portrait of a young man’s addiction to pornography and masturbation. It’s a genuine underground film about WANKING that’s delectably imbued with plenty of WANK qualities. Any obsessive will respond to this, not in spite, but BECAUSE of the picture’s meandering, borderline structure and roughness - its HONESTY! Pollack’s film touches the soul (and a few other, uh, personal places) because it's so goddamn, heart-achingly real.

The Secret Trial 5
Dir. Amar Wala
Audiences all over the world need to see this film. It's proof that IF a so-called benign democratic stronghold like Canada is willing to engage in such fascist activities, imagine just how horrendous the whole wide world is becoming with respect to the thug-like imposition of Orwellian measures to keep everyone in their place.

Tales of The Grim Sleeper
Dir. Nick Broomfield
Broomfield's film sheds a huge light upon how a killer openly went about his tireless, prodigious, dirty business - pretty much in plain view. The LAPD, not surprisingly, refused Broomfield's requests to be interviewed. We only see the cops on camera through news footage wherein they're extolling their "genius" at cracking the case through good, old-fashioned police work. As Broomfield's film more than ably proves, the police pretty much did nothing while one woman, after another and another and another, ad nauseam, were brutally murdered. Well, the cops DID manage to brag about how much they did.

Terror at the Mall
Dir. Dan Reed
The horrific experience of knowing we are seeing actual footage of terrorism is balanced in profoundly moving ways since director Reed provides, ultimately, is a testament to the courage of ordinary people. There is fear, to be sure, but in many ways, true courage can only be borne out of fear and one ultimately must salute Reed and his team for giving these people a voice in light of actions that will be seared upon them forever.

Whitey: The United States of America V. James J. Bulger
Dir. Joe Berlinger
This film is one of the most harrowing crime pictures ever made. It's no drama, however, but is certainly imbued with a compulsive narrative expertly unfurled by ace documentary filmmaker Berlinger. The picture leaves you breathlessly agog at the utter brutality and sordid corruption of a system that allowed a monster like American gangster James Bulger to get away with his crimes for so long. The film will, no doubt remain a classic of great American cinema long after all of us have gone from this Earth. It's what cinema should be - it's for the ages.

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THE INTERVIEW - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Kim Jong-un Assassination Comedy Not Especially Funny or Clever

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The cast of THE INTERVIEW has way
more fun than its audience ever will.
The Interview (2014)
Dir. Seth Rogen, Evan Goldberg
Scr. Dan Sterling
Starring: Seth Rogen, James Franco, Randall Park, Lizzy Caplan, Diana Bang, Eminem, Rob Lowe

Review By Greg Klymkiw

On paper, this must have sounded pretty good. The producer (Seth Rogen) and host (James Franco) of a highly rated sleaze-o-rama TV interview show specialize in outrageous shock-value exposes of American pop culture celebrities: for example, Eminem announces his homosexuality on the show, whilst Rob Lowe removes a toupee and there's talk of interviewing Matthew McConaughey about his sexual relations with a goat. When the dictator of North Korea, Kim Jong-un, a huge fan of the show agrees to an interview, our bro-mantic couple are not only going to be shipped all expenses paid to North Korea, but are approached and trained by the CIA to assassinate him.

Hilarity, supposedly, ensues.

Unfortunately, The Interview just isn't very funny and spins its wheels most of the time in a sort of schizophrenic manner - never reaching the level of bonafide satire, nor lowering itself to the depths of just plain outrageous humour. Franco and Rogen are, as per usual, engaging enough and manage to squeeze out a few mild chuckles along the way, but because their performances are both pitched so high in the tongue-in-cheek department, it manages to mute whatever laugh potential existed in the material if it had been played with much straighter faces.

The picture's attempts at a kind of good-natured balancing act between blinkered American racism and ethnocentrism never works since the film is so far removed from being genuine satire that such extremities which, might have been delightfully, darkly and viciously funny in that context, just fall flat. As it stands, jokes about how cute dogs can only live freely in America instead of being eaten by ravenous, starving North Koreans or how stupid the North Korean security forces are that they never implant surveillance equipment in the rooms occupied by the leading men (as they openly discuss their assassination plans) and Kim Jong-un's secret obsession with Katy Perry music (and the list, goes on and on and on) all feel like discarded SNL gags.

In terms of the picture's potential to poke fun at America's constant attempts to overthrow dictators - not because it's the right thing to do, but because they can gain economic and political footholds the world over - is all dashed when the seemingly friendly Kim Jong-un is eventually revealed to be the psychotic despot everyone has assumed he was to begin with. American might is right and assassination IS the ONLY answer. It's here where the movie is a not-so-shameless propping up of American Imperialism at its worst.

Some might suggest I doth pretest too much - that The Interview is just meant to be a silly, good-natured comedy. Stupid, however, is not silly and assassination is not good-natured. Worst of all, the movie isn't even supremely godawful, it's just crashingly mediocre. Did I smile and chuckle? Very occasionally. Did the movie ever bore me? Well, uh yeah, actually it did. Did, God Forbid, the movie offend me? Well, sort of - only insofar as its subject matter could well have been exploited for its satirical potential and instead, took incendiary material and reduced it to the level of a sub-par buddy comedy a la Bing and Bob On the Road (but lacking even the "sophistication" of those creaky endeavours).

The Eminem and Rob Lowe cameo interviews are not without some meagre merit and Randall Park genuinely delivers a standout performance as the dictator - delivering most of his stuff with a straight face and only eventually going into over-the-top territory where the script, such as it is, demands the actor to go. Sadly, the scene with the greatest potential to be inspired lunacy involves finger-biting, but it never goes as far as it should. It injects something potentially outrageous, but holds back where it counts the most. All one need do is recall the Monty Python sketch entitled "Salad Days By Sam Peckinpah" to acknowledge the missed potential here.

Overall, The Interview proves to be one rancid, overcooked bowl of kimchi.

The funniest moment for me was when Kim Jong-un reveals a tank bestowed upon North Korea by Stalin. James Franco corrects the dictator by saying, "In my country, we pronounce his name as "Stallone."

This, garnering the biggest laugh from me, simply hammered home that the movie is unequivocally lame at best.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *½ One-and-a-half-stars

The Interview is in limited theatrical release and playing day-and-date on VOD via Sony Pictures.

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MR. TURNER - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Contemporary Classic opens@TIFF BellLightbox via Mongrel Media

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The many faces of JMW Turner
in a work of art about an artist who led
a life well lived and well observed.
Mr. Turner
Dir. Mike Leigh
Starring: Timothy Spall, Dorothy Atkinson, Marion Bailey, Paul Jesson, Lesley Manville, Martin Savage, Joshua McGuire, Ruth Sheen, David Horovitch, Karl Johnson

Review By Greg Klymkiw

It seems fitting that the first film biography of the great Romantic landscape painter JMW Turner, oft-referred to as "the painter of light", is the product of one of the world's greatest living directors, Mike Leigh (Life is Sweet, Naked, Secrets & Lies, Vera Drake, Topsy-Turvy).

The exquisite properties of light in cinema, the glorious dance of film through a projector, the astonishing grace, promise and amalgamation of so many mediums into one, all driven by exposing and rendering the luminosity which, Turner proclaimed on his deathbed as God itself, is what yields this astonishing, moving celebration of a supremely important visual artist.

In a sense, Turner captured the qualities of light and motion on canvas in ways I always felt are what led to those same properties finding their way to be emblazoned forever upon celluloid to capture the heart, soul and visual radiance of illumination, of nature, of life itself. Not unlike insects drawn to amber to be sealed and preserved for all time, Turner's brilliance was creating work that could live forever and inform all visual arts. In his own way, he might well have had the soul of a filmmaker if technology had somehow moved its way up to meet him halfway. Thankfully, we have Turner's legacy of genius, and now we have Mike Leigh's glorious film.

Mr. Turner is perfection incarnate. It is so magnificent that one cannot imagine a greater testament to an artist and his art. Leigh captures a man, an aesthetic movement, a time of ideas and exploration and ultimately, he creates the means by which we can transport ourselves to an era where the sky was the limit with a simple, but deeply felt brush stroke.

Beginning with Turner (Timothy Spall) in middle age and continuing to his death, Mike Leigh pulls off the near-impossible in capturing what being a great artist is. Making use of a myriad of sumptuously-composed tableaux through the lens of cinematographer Dick Pope, Leigh gives us a glimpse into the process that defines artistry, but also allows us a fly on the wall perspective of what indeed might have made this great man thrive. Most wondrously, Leigh achieves this by cinematically recreating and/or imagining both Turner's work and what precisely the great artist could well have seen with his own eyes to inspire his breathtaking visions on canvas.

We delight in numerous scenes of Turner creating, socializing amongst the rich and famous, sparring with other artists and various intelligentsia of England's literary, critical, academic and artistic elite and most of all, Leigh provides us with a deeply felt and meticulously researched film that allows us to experience, at least from Leigh's considered eye, what made Turner tick as a human being. On one hand, he valued a Bohemian lifestyle, while on the other, was able to traverse with considerable freedom due to his wealth and fame. And much as we might crave a wholly sentimental portrait, Leigh fleshes Turner out, warts and all.

Turner eschews his duties as a father to the daughters born from an affair earlier in life and furthermore treats his long-toiling maid servant as a sexual receptacle for his gropings and loin-thrusts, in spite of the mounting ravages of psoriasis which wrack her body. Conversely, hs eals shown to be a man infused with great romance and tenderness, especially in his relations with a widow who at first provides him with seaside lodgings and eventually, a bed to share. Even more passionately, Turner is revealed to bear congenial familiarity and the deepest love for his father, a former barber and now his personal assistant and manager. Turner's connection to his father seems to know no earthly bounds and we both feel and believe it with the same conviction that leads our jaws to drop when he displays utter disregard and contempt for the mother of his illegitimate daughters.

This whole tale unravels in an unconventional manner which makes us think we're on board a solid narrative engine, thrusting ever forward, but in reality, we're cascading on a near-poetic series of vignettes, an episodic odyssey of an artist during one of his richest periods. It is Turner's discoveries as an artist that really carry us along, but the creative vessel, in spite of the occasional pock marks of selfishness and self-graitification in Turner, is also replete with humanity and we experience the man's ever-increasing love for life just as he's also at a point where he begins to sense his own mortality.

The pace of Leigh's film is leisurely, but never less than fascinating. He creates a world of so far away, so long ago, yet there is no fairy tale quality at play here, but rather an acute sense of time and place, so much so that we feel like the proceedings are rooted in a strict adherence to reality and historical accuracy. This, of course, is not to suggest there is no magic since Leigh conjures scene after scene which dazzles us with the sheer magic inherent in the way in which people must have lived. The dialogue and conversations, the drawing room and parlour discussions, the gorgeous, heart-achingly beautiful slowness of life, all unfold in a manner to allow both audience and characters to take in every moment and breath along the way. It is a pace perfectly in keeping with a world we'll never experience, but that we can participate in as viewers and get an overall sense of the pieces of Turner's time which Leigh captures so indelibly for our benefit.

There isn't a single false note in any of the exquisite performances. Even background extras live and breathe with the stuff of both humanity and fully-fleshed character. Though the pleasures from all principal and supporting players are almost incalculable, the film finally belongs to the astonishing Timothy Spall as Turner. Delightfully gruff, curmudgeonly, jowly and turtle-paced in everything, lest he spies a natural beauty of the world which ramps up his facial and physical gestures well beyond his normal demeanour, are just a few of the extraordinary feats of acting Spall offers. But Leigh has made a film of the deepest humanity and so too does Spall render his performance. There are moments in Spall's performance which will never, ever leave you. One of the greatest of these sequences is a look of despair Spall creates for Turner as his father dies before him. It's a look that blends sobs and laughs, tears and a crazed toothy smile and a sense that we are witnessing a man who becomes all too aware of life's dichotomous properties.

And yet, there is always the light, the glorious light. How appropriate then that Leigh begins and ends his film with the Sun in all its splendour. How, in a film that's all about light, could it ever be anything else?

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars
Mr. Turner opened theatrically on Christmas Day at TIFF Bell Lightbox via Mongrel Media and will be released to the rest of Canada over the coming weeks.

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THE FILM CORNER presents THE 10 WORST MOVIES of 2014 as selected by Greg Klymkiw for your pleasure.

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The Film Corner's
10 WORST MOVIES OF 2014
as selected by
Greg Klymkiw


2014 had its fair share of dreadful movies. A whopping three titles received my lowest rating: THE TURD DISCOVERED BEHIND HARRY'S CHAR BROIL AND DINING LOUNGE. Below you'll get a link to my original review (by clicking on the title of the movie) and a brief italicized quotation from said review. In alphabetical order, The 10 Worst Movies of 2014:

THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN 2
Andrew Garfield is a woeful Peter Parker. Upchuck at this, web-slingers: An annoying hedgehog tuft of hair upon his oversized gourd-like cranium, a thin, misshapen long face that's seemingly being winched from his jaw to ground level, weasel-like eyes, crooked smirk and shrivelled proboscis with its perpetually upturned tip and an irremovable sneer. I won't even get started on his spindly Ichabod-Crane-like body. Oh, and it's 142 minutes long.

THE BABADOOK
The whole affair is utterly humourless and annoyingly adorned with the kind of preciousness that gets festival programmers, film critics and pseuds of all persuasions, hot and bothered that they're seeing something resembling an art film dabbling in off-the-well-worn-genre-pathworks.

THE CONNECTION
It's been over forty years since The French Connection and a new motion picture has come along to prove that there were indeed law enforcement officials on the French side who did a little something to break the case. Alas, the movie is French and might as well be about eating cheese and drinking wine. At 135 plodding minutes, this is one of the most dull crime pictures made in, well, let's say over forty years.

DAWN OF THE PLANET OF THE APES
What's next? "Afternoon of the Planet of the Apes"? "Tea-Time of the Planet of the Apes"? "Night of the Living Dead Planet of the Apes"? About the best that can be said in favour of this dour, serious and irredeemably humourless cash-grab reboot is that it's not as dreadful as its predecessor. Of course, it doesn't hold a candle to the Original Five from the 60s and 70s.

ENDLESS LOVE
The 1981 Endless Love, a sludge-heap of Everest-sized proportions, must now surely be considered one of the greatest movies ever made compared to this 2014 bowl of Charles Manson's anal drippings. If Zeffirelli created a cinematic equivalent to an aborted foetus served up on a dollar-store paper plate, then it's clear the idiot-sans-savante who purportedly directed this version, must surely have outdistanced the cinematic abortionist styling of Zeffirelli and bloody well ripped a foetus from a womb with a rusty coat hanger, then stomped upon the gelatinous blob with the abandon of a lead performer in a crack-fuelled performance of "Lord of the Dance", then took a huge, rancid crap upon it and finally, with a hearty "Voila!", called it a movie.

THE INTERVIEW
This non-entity "comedy" just isn't very funny and spins its wheels most of the time in a sort of schizophrenic manner, never reaching the level of bonafide satire, nor lowering itself to the depths of just plain outrageous humour. Some might suggest I doth pretest too much - that The Interviewis just meant to be a silly, good-natured comedy. Stupid, however, is not silly and assassination is not good-natured. Worst of all, the movie isn't even supremely godawful, it's just crashingly mediocre.

OCTOBER GALE
If you fit the demographic of this loathsome, incompetent Harlequin Romance-like "thriller", knock yourself out. Steno-girls, retail clerks, middle-aged empty-nest housewives and 70-year-old ladies deserve movies too.

REVENGE OF THE GREEN DRAGONS
This incompetent lame duck crime thriller is fair game for euthanasia. And speaking of assisted suicide, the film features an especially egregious misuse of a pasty, disinterested Ray Liotta who somnambulistically shuffles through the proceedings as an FBI agent who, on paper, is intent on breaking the mob, but in practice just looks like he needs another drink or snort.

UNDER THE SKIN
This revoltingly cerebral science fiction oddity stars the intolerably ubiquitous Scarlett Johansson as an alien Woman Who Fell To Earth or rather, in this case, Scotland. Her mission is to seduce a variety of Glaswegian men, take them back to her squalid digs and tempt them with her puffy white flesh. As Scarlett doffs pieces of clothing, the seemingly endless parade of gents who follow her, their eyes transfixed by Little Miss Bum-Chunks, gradually find themselves sinking feet-first into a murky, purulent, gelatinous goo that swallows them up.

VERONICA MARS
The movie plods mercilessly through one of the most uninteresting murder mysteries ever committed to film and we're forced to tolerate a hit parade of mostly no-name actors who look like they're delivering lines by rote in an overlong failed television pilot. As for direction - what direction? The coverage is so pathetically generated I'd hazard a guess that the director is none other than Mr. Magoo.

So there you have, the Top Ten WORST Movies of 2014. There were plenty of dreadful movies this year, but suffice it to say that the following titles are bad enough to be listed as runners-up. Feel free to mush together the aforementioned with the below-mentioned and you'll have yourself a lovely list of the 20 Worst Films of 2014. In alphabetical order, the also-rans are:

CAPTAIN AMERICA THE WINTER SOLDIER
THE DROWNSMAN
GODZILLA
THE HUNGER GAMES MOCKINGJAY PART I
NOAH
PARANORMAL ACTIVITY THE MARKED ONES
PREDESTINATION
QUEEN OF BLOOD
SON OF GOD
WOLVES


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THE FILM CORNER presents Greg Klymkiw's 10 Best Films of 2014 for thine edification and pleasure

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THE FILM CORNER presents
Greg Klymkiw's 10 Best Films of 2014 (in alphabetical order)


Each film is accompanied by an italicized excerpt from the original review.
Feel free to click on the title to read the full review


COLD IN JULY Dir. Jim Mickle
Dane (Michael C. Hall) hasn't even had time to get out of his station wagon when he arrives at the cemetery. Then again, nobody would ever know he's been the lone witness to the tail-end of the burial. No one, that is, save for Russell (Sam Shepard), the lanky, grizzled and grimacing old man with a grey buzz-cut atop his dome and a pair of shades he's removed to reveal his piercing eyes. The old man, seemingly appearing from nowhere, towers above Dane, dwarfed only by the big, old Texas sky. He leans into the open window, burning holes into the killer of his only son. "Come to watch the shit go into the hole, huh?" quips Russell with a half smile. "Mighty Christian of you."

FOXCATCHER Dir. Bennett Miller
Brilliantly and with great subtlety, the film’s sense of optics and propaganda amongst the nobility feels infused to a point where non-Americans and certainly discriminating American audiences will sense that Foxcatcher is itself propaganda, though it is, in fact, a scathing condemnation of it. As the tale progresses and John du Pont’s inbred eccentricities give way to his becoming slowly and dangerously unhinged, so too does the film shift gears into critical territory. The perception of the American Dream sours and leads to a sad, shocking and downright tragic film about delusions of grandeur transforming into psychopathic proportions – not unlike America itself.

IN HER PLACE Dir. Albert Shin
A daughter, whose child can never be hers. A mother, whose daughter is everything.
A woman who has come between them. A baby that binds all three for eternity.
Director Albert Shin's stunning sophomore feature-length outing is evocatively photographed, wrenchingly and beautifully scored and peopled with a cast as perfect as any director (or audience) would want. Paced and directed with a sensitivity reminiscent of Robert Bresson, you'll experience as haunting and touching a movie as any of the very best that have been wrought. This is great filmmaking, pure and simple.


KUMIKO THE TREASURE HUNTER Dir. David Zellner
Fargo, the movie by the Coen Brothers, is not just an instrument which inspires Kumiko's desires, it's like a part of Kumiko's character and soul and represents an ethos of both America and madness. Kumiko is no mere stranger in a strange land, but a stranger in her own land who becomes a stranger in a strange land - a woman without a country save for that which exists in her mind. There isn't a false note to be found in this gorgeously acted, directed and photographed movie. It is not without humour, but none of it is at Kumiko's expense and when the film slowly slides into full blown tragedy, the Zellners (director David and writer Nathan) surround Kumiko in the ever-accumulating high winds and snow under the big skies of Minnesota. We get, as she does, a bittersweet taste of happiness - a dream of triumph, a dream of reunion, a dream of peace, at last.

LIFE IN A FISHBOWL Dir. Baldvin Zophoníasson
A whore, a writer and a banker all search for redemption. They live out their lives separately after the horrendous Icelandic financial crisis and eventually intersect. The film features a sequence of debauchery on a Florida yacht which clearly rivals the antics of Leonardo DiCaprio and Jonah Hill in Scorsese's The Wolf of Wall Street. Director Zophoníasson contrasts Scorsese by capturing the exploitation with a documentarian's eye. Brilliantly though, the screenplay allows for a series of subtle directorial movements into territory that borders on another sort of dazzling style - one that is eventually tender and romantic, but eventually dovetails into something else altogether. There's a denouement to this sequence which occurs a few scenes later that is as maddening as it is heartbreaking.

MR. TURNER Dir. Mike Leigh
In a sense, JMW Turner captured the qualities of light and motion on canvas in ways I always felt are what led to those same properties finding their way to be emblazoned forever upon celluloid to capture the heart, soul and visual radiance of illumination, of nature, of life itself. Not unlike insects drawn to amber to be sealed and preserved for all time, Turner's brilliance was creating work that could live forever and inform all visual arts. In his own way, he might well have had the soul of a filmmaker if technology had somehow moved its way up to meet him halfway. Thankfully, we have Turner's legacy of genius, and now we have Mike Leigh's glorious film.

NYMPHOMANIAC VOL I and VOL II Dir. Lars von Trier
As Rammstein slashes our oh-so delicate tympanic membranes to shreds, we're introduced to Charlotte Gainsbourgh lying bruised and bleeding on wet pavement. We accept that she's positioned like Christ on the Cross. It is, after all, a film by Lars von Trier. The imposing, hulking Stellan Skarsgård, with a full grocery sack no less, discovers the pulverized waif on the filthy, clammy cement. She doesn't want an ambulance or the police, so the gentleman suggests, rather sociably, that she at least come back to his place for a cup of tea. I kid you not. Tea.

THE SOUND AND THE FURY Dir. James Franco
Franco plucks what he loves from William Faulkner's rich, stream-of-consciousness prose and splatters it Jackson Pollock-like on the screen. Before you know it, he's sharing delectable inbred territory with Anthony Mann's God's Little Acre and Elia Kazan's Baby Doll. It's pure, delicious Southern Gothic at its most compelling and utterly insane. Some might believe Faulkner would be spinning in his grave over this, but I'd like to believe he might have had himself as rip-roaring a good time as I did.

THE TRIBE Dir. Myroslav Slaboshpytskiy
Set in a special boarding school in Ukraine, writer-director Myroslav Slaboshpytskiy paints an evocative portrait of students living within a tribal societal structure where adult supervision is minimal at best and even culpable in the desecration of youth. Living in an insular world, carved out by years of developing survival skills in this institutional environment, the kids have a long-established criminal gang culture and they engage in all manner of nefarious activities including, but not limited to thieving, black marketeering and pimping. The violence is often brutal and the film never shies away from explicit sexual frankness. Even more harrowing is when we follow the literal results of this constant sexual activity and witness a protracted, pain-wracked abortion on a filthy kitchen table.

WHIPLASH Dir. Damien Chazelle
"If you deliberately sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig," barks star J.K. Simmons as a jazz instructor at a tony private music conservatory in glorious NYC. This guy makes Gny. Sgt. Hartman (R. Lee Ermey) in Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket look like Ward Cleaver. He believes his students are the best of the best, but frankly, for him, that's not good enough. He demands they push themselves harder than a prize studhorse slamming a mare in heat. He demands true force. He demands self-inflicted pain as well as the infliction of pain. He demands greatness.

2014 was a terrific year for movies and because of that, the following titles, in alphabetical order, are films which could easily be on a 10-Best list, but because there have to be ten, the rest of the best end up here as runners-up. Feel free to mush the following 20 titles with the aforementioned 10 titles and you'll have yourself a handy-dandy "Film Corner Top 30 of 2014 as selected by Greg Klymkiw" or, if you will, a simple "The Film Corner's Best Movies of 2014 as selected by Greg Klymkiw". So, here ya' go, the runners-up to the best of the year of Our Lord 2014:

AMERICAN SNIPER
BERKSHIRE COUNTY
THE BETTER ANGELS
THE CAPTIVE
DEALER
EJECTA
FRANK
THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL
INHERENT VICE
HELLMOUTH
HYENA
IN THE CROSSWIND
LATE PHASES
LEVIATHAN
MAGIC IN THE MOONLIGHT
MAPS TO THE STARS
THE NOTEBOOK
OCULUS
PASOLINI
ROAD TO PALOMA
SEE NO EVIL 2
WYRMWOOD


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THE FILM CORNER CANADIAN FILM AWARDS 2014 - CELEBRATING THE VERY BEST IN CANADIAN CINEMA 2014 as selected by your very Rev. Greg Klymkiw for The Film Corner - Including TOP 10 CANADIAN FEATURE FILMS, TOP 5 CANADIAN DIRECTORS, TOP 5 CANADIAN SCREENPLAYS, TOP 5 ACTORS IN A CANADIAN FILM, TOP 5 ACTRESSES IN A CANADIAN FILM, TOP 5 CANADIAN DOCUMENTARIES and TOP 5 CANADIAN SHORT FILMS

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Top 10 Canadian Feature Films of 2014
(in alphabetical order)

Berkshire County
(Audrey Cummings)

The Captive
(Atom Egoyan)

The Editor
(Adam Brooks, Matthew Kennedy)

Ejecta
(Chad Archibald, Matt Wiele)


Eryka's Eyes
(Bruno Lazaro Pacheco)


The F Word/What if
(Michael Dowse)


Hellmouth
(John Geddes)


In Her Place
(Albert Shin)


A Kind Of Wonderful Thing
(Jason Lupish)


Maps To The Stars
(David Cronenberg)

Top 5 Canadian Directors
(in alphabetical order)

Adam Brooks, Matthew Kennedy - The Editor
David Cronenberg - Maps To The Stars
Audrey Cummings - Berkshire County
Atom Egoyan - The Captive
Albert Shin - Albert Shin

Top 5 Canadian Screenplays
(in alphabetical order)

Pearl Ball-Harding/Albert Shin - In Her Place
Adam Brooks/Matthew Kennedy/Conor Sweeney - The Editor
Tony Burgess - Ejecta
Elan Mastai - The F Word/What if
Bruce Wagner - Maps To The Stars

Top 5 Actors in a Canadian Film
(in alphabetical order)

Michael D. Cohen - It Was You Charlie
Stephen McHattie - Hellmouth
Daniel Radcliffe - The F Word/What if
Ryan Reynolds - The Captive
Julian Richings - Ejecta

Top 5 Actresses in a Canadian Film
(in alphabetical order)

Yoon Da-kyung - In Her Place -tied with- Kil Hae-yeon - In Her Place
Ahn Ji-hye - In Her Place
Alysa King - Berkshire County
Julianne Moore - Maps To The Stars
Erica Sherwood - A Kind of Wonderful Thing

Top 5 Canadian Documentaries
(in alphabetical order)

Altman - Ron Mann
The Boy From Geita - Vic Sarin
Marmato - Marc Grieco
The Secret Trial 5 - Amar Wala
Trick or Treaty? - Alanis Obomsawin

Top 5 Canadian Short Films
(in alphabetical order)

Avec le temps - Mark Mogenstern
Controversies - Ryan McKenna
Migration - Fluorescent Hill (Mark Lomond, Johanne Ste-Marie)
Mynarski Death Plummet - Matthew Rankin
The Weatherman and the Shadowboxer - Randall Okita






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THE NIGHT PORTER - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Nazi officer and prisoner S&M love affair on Criterion BRD/DVD

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Surviving Nazi Germany: The Captor, The Captive. 
The Night Porter (1974)
Dir. Liliana Cavani
Starring: Dirk Bogarde, Charlotte Rampling

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Of all the films to generate controversial reactions, Liliana Cavani's 1974 depiction of the post-war resumption of a violent sadomasochistic relationship between a former S.S. officer and a concentration camp survivor, is one of a mere handful of pictures to inspire genuine revulsion amongst critics and audiences. On the surface, this is certainly not hard to understand since an easy reading and response to the disturbing and sickening subject matter is the sort which prompts immediate, knee-jerk cries of condemnation. Understanding that so many automatically filed the film into a folder marked Nazi Sex Pornography is one thing, accepting it is quite another. The genuine horrors of war and totalitarianism are hard enough to swallow, but I suspect an even greater understanding of mankind's propensity for evil and cruelty can only really be examined and assessed properly within the context of art that eschews the sense of propriety most demand from their art, even when the subject is genuinely horrific as it is here.

If anything, the bravery of filmmaker Liliana Cavani and her stars Dirk Bogarde and Charlotte Rampling must be regarded, not with disdain and derision, but with meritorious acclaim and the most fervent and passionate defence if one is to truly regard art as both a reflection of mankind, but also a microscope under which all aspects of humanity are placed upon a slide for our eyes to consider closeup and in gut-wrenching detail.

Cavani has made a film that refuses to flinch from the horror of Nazi Germany and how its influence was so deep-seeded that the after-effects seem identical, if not more insidious that what unravelled in the first place. This is a film that's virtually impossible to watch and accept in one sitting. There's nothing about it that's easily digestible and possible will never be truly comprehendible.

Survival in the camp takes on elements of ritual.
Then again, the vile reality of Nazism and other forms of national policies built on the foundations of hatred and repression are themselves not the sort of thing anyone wants to assimilate in order to understand in degrees that brand humanity as a whole with a kind of culpability in such madness so that our own shame is the tool by which to erase the potential of it ever happening again.

And yet, even as of this writing, it continues in various forms and to varying degrees the world over. As such, Cavani's film holds a place of even greater importance now and for the future than even its makers hoped for upon its first release. The Night Porter, as revolting as it is, must be seen and must be regarded seriously.

The events of the film are simple enough to summarize. It's 1957. Max (Bogarde) works as a night porter in a swanky Vienna hotel. Quiet, efficient and officious, he tends to the needs of the guests with an almost slavish fastidiousness. No request is too tall an order. He even matter-of-factly pimps out a stud bellboy to service a decadent, mildly repulsive old countess who requires a hunky bedfellow to keep her warm on cold, lonely nights.

Max is a former S.S. officer whose duty included the medical "welfare" of prisoners in a concentration camp. He belongs to a secret society of prominent Nazi war criminals who are devoted to eliminating any potential witnesses that could bring them down for their heinous activities. Most of the men seek the sort of exoneration that will restore them to elite positions in German society. Max has goals that are far less lofty. He wishes to toil in obscurity as the hotel's night porter, earning a modest living whilst at the same time, commanding a respect, albeit meagre, within the confines of his tiny little world.

One fateful night, he comes face-to-face with Lucia (Rampling), the wife of a famous American symphony conductor staying in the posh hotel. Through a series of flashbacks we learn that Max took a special liking to Lucia when, as the daughter of a prominent socialist, she was incarcerated in the concentration camp he was stationed in. To survive, Lucia succumbed to Max's sexual desires of the sadomasochistic variety, but as the years crept on, their relationship developed into a perverse co-dependence which, under the circumstances seemed to go bove and beyond a mere one-sided and exploitative relationship, but one of mutual desires.

Now, years later, Max and Lucia pick up their torrid passions where they left off and soon, they're embroiled in a heated relationship. Unfortunately, Max's Nazi colleagues don't take too well to this. The secret society demands that all witnesses be "taken care of". With the murderous Nazis keeping close watch on his every move, Max locks Lucia alone with him in his tiny flat and their relationship of sadomasochism reaches even more intense heights. As it does, the reality of leaving the apartment could mean death for both of them. The couple are now on a strangely even keel as they're both prisoners. Once the rationed food in the apartment is gone, the couple starve to a point of emaciation and soon realize what must be done. Max dons his S.S. uniform and Lucia, the sexy shimmering garb she was adorned with in the concentration camp. Together, they leave the apartment to face whatever fate holds in store for them.

With this relatively simple narrative, Cavani carves out deeply complex thematic, dramatic and emotional levels which are, to be sure, provocative, but transcend that of being strictly prurient. Rituals of the most pure, yet clearly demented kind represent the sick entitlement of the Nazis, but also their desires to infuse life in the camp with fragments of cultural expression which provide some semblance of familiarity to life before the madness of WWII. We not only follow the juxtaposed then and now relationship of sadomasochism between Max and Lucia, but Cavani emphasizes ritual even in the day-to-day existence of the S.S. with flashbacks to cabaret-styled entertainment (featuring Lucia as a topless chanteuse adorned in trousers, suspenders and S.S. hat) and even the performance of a ballet featuring a near-naked male dancer displaying his prowess as an artist whilst also offering up the spectacle of his gorgeously-sculpted body for the edification of the Nazi officers.

The dancer even appears at Max's hotel to perform in the privacy of an empty hotel room for Max. The dancer must continue offering up his body on display long after the war has ended, just as Lucia must fill the gaps created in her "normal" life by reigniting sadomasochism with the man who was once her captor. With Lucia in particular, her need to continue with the exploitation of her body and soul after the war, is as much an extension of the prisoner mentality pounded into her by her former incarceration, as it is a type of empowerment by turning her former captor into a slave, or prisoner who can only be truly fulfilled by Lucia's command over him on a sexual level.

The repugnance of this is surely what caused critics and audiences to emit bilious condemnation of The Night Porter, but in fact is the very thing that rubs their noses in the notion of complicity in such evils. The exploitative elements of the Nazi aesthetic being tied into sexual gratification works on two levels - that of the participation in said activities by characters in the film and the movie's contemporary audience who are forced to participate in sexual dominance and subjugation, albeit that which is clearly reversed, at least initially, in Lucia's favour.

That captor and prisoner, both become prisoners of latent desires brought to the fore by the evils of war and its lingering influence in peacetime. This is surely hard to accept, but accept we must if we're to become open to the true and genuine horrors of war.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** Four-Stars

The Night Porter is currently available in a brand new 2K transfer on both Blu-Ray and DVD formats in a sumptuous new home entertainment offering from the Criterion Collection. Included on the disc are several important extra features: an all-new interview with director Cavani which offers a wealth of illumination upon the production and thematic concerns of the film, a gorgeous booklet that includes an essay by scholar Gaetana Marrone plus a 1975 interview with Cavani. The real gem of the package is the inclusion of Women of the Resistance a fifty-minute 1965 documentary by Cavani which focuses upon female partisans who survived the German invasion of Italy.



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THE FILM CORNER'S 4TH ANNUAL TOP 10 HEROES OF CANADIAN FILM as selected by your Most Revered Greg Klymkiw in this, the year of Our Good Lord, 2014 (in alphabetical order, of course)

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THE TOP 10 HEROES OF CANADIAN CINEMA 2014
as selected by the Film Corner's Most Reverend Greg Klymkiw
(in alphabetical order, of course)

Amberlight PR: Commandeered by the inimitable Chris Alicock (music marketing guru, producer and overall legendary launcher o' great Canadian talent) and buttressed by the formidable PR powerhouses Leah Visser (the tireless, committed doyenne of film and home entertainment PR) and Kristen Ferkranus (the sharp, youthful face and voice of numerous film PR initiatives), Amberlight has been on the front lines of promoting a wide variety of superb Canadian films distributed by their equally heroic client Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada. Such cutting edge indie Canuck genre masterworks by the likes of Foresight Features, the Twisted (Soska) Twins and, among many others, Steven Kostanski, have been in excellent hands with this crack team of classy flacks. The team is rounded by Jason Acton in graphics/IT and Vanessa Neschevich in social media. (And gee whiz, Amberlight also reps their fair share of super-cool non-Canuck items for Canadian audiences).




Audrey Cummings: Along with the Soska Twins, Karen Lam and Jovanka Vuckovic, Canada can now add yet another astonishing female filmmaker dedicated to generating Canadian Cinema designed to scare the living crap out of audiences. Cummings has toiled away in short-film hell, creating a variety of suspense and science fiction-themed work in addition to her lovely slice o' life mother-daughter relationship dramedy Burgeon and Fade. Cummings has recently completed her first feature film Berkshire County, a chilling babysitter versus piggly-wiggly-costumed psychopaths with its telling critique of traditional roles expected of young women (especially) in rural areas, the sexual assault, exploitation and bullying of same said young women and super-charged empowerment and vengeance burning with brains and blood-letting. Already a major award winner in genre film festivals, Berkshire County joins a huge swath of intelligent scare-fests made independently from occasionally dour, pole-up-the-ass publicly-funded investment agencies like Telefilm Canada. Berkshire County is being released theatrically via A71 in Canada and sold worldwide via Raven Banner Entertainment.




Avi Federgreen: This youthful powerhouse of art and industry has been a producer on numerous quality Canadian films like As Slow As Possible, One Week, Leslie My Name is Evil, Random Acts of Romance and Empire of Dirt. As the founder and CEO of Federgreen Entertainment and Indiecan Entertainment, his commitment to the creation and distribution of our national cinema has remained fiercely and boldly independent. 2014 saw Federgreen launch an important new production initiative, the INDIECAN10K Film Challenge, a cross-Canada enterprise that will launch several new first feature films which will be personally mentored by Federgreen in addition to respected producer-mentors in every province and/or territory selected for participation. In March 2014, seven productions were selected from British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, New Brunswick, Manitoba and Ontario. Keep your eyes glued to the marquees, Canada. Product is a coming.

Jason Lupish: He's a nice Ukrainian boy in Ontario's wine country hinterlands and he makes movies there. This is cool. With a team of friends/colleagues, his St. Catharines-based production company Open Concept Films has been an awe-inspiring regional force in serving its indigenous community and the country at large. Short films, commercials, promo films and documentaries have been a major stock in trade, but the real triumph for Lupish is the absolutely lovely no-budget award-winning feature film A Kind of Wonderful Thing which is, frankly, a kind of wonderful movie. In fact, it's not just "kind of" wonderful, it's moving, funny and fabulous. Lupish and his collaborators created a film that is indigenous, yet infused with a universal quality of genuinely offbeat Canadian fruit loopiness. And now Lupish and his team are working on a new project that is going to completely blow the lid off. . . well, I'm not allowed to say, but it's gonna knock people on their collective butts.

Bill Marshall: The man is a legend. He founded the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) in 1976 and was its first director. He's produced some of Canada's finest feature films including the classic Outrageous and among a myriad of achievements in both the film industry and public life, produced over 200 docs, PSAs and other specialty items. 2014 continued to be a banner year for Marshall's support of Canadian film. As Artistic Director of the Niagara Integrated Film Festival's first year, Marshall brought some of the finest international films to Canada's glorious wine country in a lovely amalgamation of the region's cuisine and delectable spirits. One of the festival's outstanding achievements was its commitment to programming Canadian Cinema including the tremendous Niagara-region-produced feature length debut of Jason Lupish's A Kind of Wonderful Thing. Marshall is a senior member of our industry who commands the highest degree of respect, but he maintains a modesty, honesty and sturdy work ethic that's rare in our business. The man never quits. He could rest easy with any fraction of his achievements, but we know he never will.

David Miller: This estimable young man roared onto the motion picture scene with an unmatched fury and in a few short years he's become one of Canada's brightest young producers and a leading entrepreneur in the packaging, promotion and distribution of our indigenous motion picture product. Amal, Blackbird, Berkshire County and It Was You Charlie are just a smattering of important titles Miller's attached to. Not surprisingly, the man has a whack of pictures that are either recently completed or in development. In 2006, he wisely connected with the brilliant branding gurus Chad Maker and Kirk Comrie and he is now President of A71 Productions Inc which aims at the highest heights artistically and backs up its product with high level marketing savvy. Miller and his partners are genuine "friends" to some of the very best filmmaking talent in Canada. Recent properties include Kivalina, Foolish Heart and Sidharth. And lest we forget, Miller was the guy who led the major marketing charge at the National Film Board of Canada with a glorious Oscar campaign which garnered two additional NFB nominations and a win for Ryan. Canada is in very good hands with the likes of David Miller and A71.

Ryan McKenna, Mark Morgenstern, Randall Okita and Matthew Rankin: These four young men are national treasures of Canada's grand tradition of cutting edge cinema. Ryan McKenna's Controversies is one of the most haunting and poetic short documentary films ever made in this country and his first feature film The First Winter is an utter gem which captures, the bleak, sad, elegiac and utterly hilarious qualities of a bitter Winnipeg winter through the eyes of a stranded young Portugese immigrant. (McKenna also directed Survival Lessons: The Greg Klymkiw Story, a one-hour doc that I understand is not without merit.) Mark Morgenstern is not only a phenomenal cinematographer, but as the director of Curtains (co-directed with sister Stephanie), Shooter and the jaw-droppingly gorgeous, moving and thematically rich Avec Le Temps, he's one of Canada's leading practitioners of alternative drama and the avant-garde. Randall Okita is one of Canada's greatest young visual artists and his films blend a variety of approaches and media to the art of storytelling including machine with wishbone, the knock-you-on-your-ass portrait as a random act of violence and 2014's highly acclaimed multi-award-winning the weatherman and the shadowboxer. Matthew Rankin is one of the leading heirs to the tradition of Winnipeg's unique wave of Prairie Post-Modernism led by John Paizs and Guy Maddin. His rich cinematic output is perhaps one of the most important historical, cultural and artistic reflections upon the unique midwestern big old small-town, Winnipeg. His works include Death By Popcorn: The Tragedy of the Winnipeg Jets (co-directed with his equally brilliant and demented 'Pegger colleagues Walter Forsberg and Mike Maryniuk), HYDRO-LÉVESQUE, Negativipeg and among far too many (yet never enough works of inspired madness), 2014's Mynarski Death Plummet (one of the best short films of the year and one of the best short films made anywhere - EVER!).

John Paizs: Cinema in Canada, in terms of a highly lauded international reputation for its sheer demented genius, does not exist, nor would it exist, if not for one of our truly greatest auteurs, John Paizs. His groundbreaking short films The Obsession of Billy Botski and Springtime in Greenland, his hilarious madcap satire of 50s science fiction The Top of the Food Chain (aka Invasion!) and the legendary and quite perfect Crime Wave, an ode to garish 50s crime pictures, NFB documentaries and corporate training films of the 60s all betray a huge body of stupefyingly extraordinary work that define English-Canadian cinema at its very best. Guy Maddin and Astron-6, both of Winnipeg, owe everything to Paizs and frankly, so does the entire new wave of independent cinema in Canada during its Golden Age of the late 80s to mid-90s. Everyone and anyone of any consequence whatsoever has been a follower in Paizs's mighty footprints of ingenuity, originality and just plain anarchic brilliance. Crime Wave was recently the recipient of a gorgeous 2K restoration thanks to TIFF's Steve Gravestock and filmmaker Jonathan Ball authored an exhaustive U of T Press book which details both its production as well as providing a punchy, intelligent, but easily digestible egghead critical analysis. Appallingly, Crime Wave is legendary for being one of the world's most beloved cult films to have been squashed and squandered by Canada's pathetic tradition of lame-ass distribution of our indigenous cinematic culture. Crime Wave has been locked in an egregious 40-year-long distribution agreement which has been passed on from one miserable company to another and now sits idly in the vaults (or rather, upon a dusty shelf) of E-1 Entertainment's bottomless pit of superb product that virtually nothing has been done with. (They're so impressively huge that they're out-Miramaxing Miramax in its heyday.) With the recent TIFF 2K restoration, Crime Wave is primed for a major campaign to address the wrongs perpetrated against it. The movie begs for a major DVD/Blu-Ray Special Limited Edition in addition to a decent theatrical platform release. E-1's pockets are deep and a mere coin toss would restore and maintain the film's rightful place amongst our country's most legendary masterworks.

Raven Banner Entertainment: Led by the impressive team of Michael Pazst, Andrew T. Hunt and James Fler with a crack crew of valued associates, Raven Banner has become one of Canada's most vibrant and influential companies worldwide. Devoted to the international and domestic sales of razor-sharp genre and art cinema, it has quickly secured fame and respect for breaking new ground in a wide variety of media within the world of independent cinema. The enduring passion of its team is virtually unparalleled and in terms of Canadian Cinema, they (along with Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada) have been the go-to guys for quality genre product in this country. Impeccable taste, sales savvy and a seemingly indefatigable work ethic, Raven Banner puts most Canadian sales entities to complete and utter shame. The overwhelming list of brilliant, talented Canadian filmmakers represented by the company is steadily mounting and it's gotten to a point where virtually no quality, kick-ass genre picture created domestically (or, for that matter, internationally) doesn't have a Raven Banner finger in the exalted pie of blood gushing, mind-fucking, nerve shredding suspense, horror and action. Founders and creators of the Canada-Wide theatrical initiative Sinister Cinema, the company continues to mine potential audiences for our delectably twisted national cinema.

VSC (Video Services Corp.): Jonathan Gross is a former rock critic, television script writer and producer who has turned his unique skills and passion to the promotion and distribution of first-rate product via his company VSC. Gross is a visionary who has long-supported a wide variety of quality motion picture product in the Canadian home and theatrical marketplace. His commitment to Canadian film and television is astonishing with a huge number of Canuck TV series, sports documentaries about our greatest athletes and original dramatic product. He's recently brought a huge number of great new internationally acclaimed independent films to Canadian audiences including Frank, Alan Partridge and, among many others, Big Bad Wolves. He's brash, bold and brilliant - just like the product he represents and the company he operates.

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HONEYMOON - DVD/BLU-RAY Review By Greg Klymkiw - Sicko Shocker on VSC & Magnolia

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Honorary Canadian Chiller
Canadian women are making the best horror films in the world right now. One just needs to look in the direction of the Soska Sisters, Audrey Cummings, Karen Lam and Jovanka Vuckovic and know this to be true.

Filmmaker Leigh Janiak is NOT Canadian, but she might as well be.

Her first feature HONEYMOON is set in the wilds of Canada and prior to learning that this twisted, uber-talented Cleveland lassie actually vacationed with her folks as a child in their Canuck cottage every summer, my first two helpings of the movie convinced me she HAD to be a Canuck.

There is nothing scarier and creepier than the Canadian wilderness. It's not DELIVERANCE-scary (though in its sickeningly benign Canuckian way it CAN be), but it's chilling as all get-out in very subtle ways. Everything about Canada is "subtle" which is what ultimately gives it a unique flavour whenever horrific things actually happen up here. Canadian wilderness, you see, feels so endless that you sense the natural world is swallowing you whole and worst of all, it's quiet - so goddamned quiet you sometimes want to kill someone or, better yet, yourself. God knows, the hair-raising stylistic frissons of master Canuckian filmmakers like David Cronenberg, Guy Maddin and Atom Egoyan (the latter's latest and severely misunderstood THE CAPTIVE, a perfect case in point about our rural ickiness) have all managed to induce the kind of shudders endemic to this supremely perverse country. Now we can add the Honorary Canadian Leigh Janiak and HONEYMOON to my list of the best Canadian films NEVER made by Canadians (FARGO and SLAP SHOT taking the top-slots in this Klymkiw-exclusive genre). HONEYMOON is now available on DVD and Blu-Ray from Video Services Corp. (VSC) and Magnolia. If you want the shit scared right out of you, I urge you to get out there and buy this one immediately.

And now, my review:

EXTRICATION, please!
Honeymoon (2014)
Dir. Leigh Janiak
Starring: Rose Leslie, Harry Treadaway

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There's an urban legend that goes thusly: A man coughs so violently that a thick rope of dark, gooey, sputum jettisons from his mouth.

This is not a case of said sputum yet depositing itself on the floor, wall or any such surface, but rather, continues to hang from the man's mouth in a manner more physiologically commensurate to that of a drooling mastiff in severely hot, humid weather. With every cough, one rapidly following the other, the man continues to release several more inches of the gelatinous goo which, refuses to separate from within. The man grabs onto the foul rope of viscous saliva with both hands, clenching and squeezing for dear life, his eyes popping in terror like Mantan Moreland in a haunted house. The man begins to resemble a church bell-ringer on bennies, tugging vigorously as he extricates more, and more, and yet, more of the bilious, glutinous cordage from his dank, sopping maw. There is no end to the glistening, pus-ridden copulae of meaty, bloody phlegm. He keeps yanking upon it with deranged abandon and it still continues to gush forth, forming finally, a sausage-link-like coil on the floor. It becomes plainly obvious to the gent that this bilious cascade is no simple, garden variety discharge.

Creepy Kitchen Action
To his sheer and utter horror, the man realizes that he's somehow managed to dislodge a hideously diseased lung that surges from his chest cavity, up through his esophagus as it indelicately streams over his tonsils and tongue, grazing his lips and plummeting to the ground.

And so it goes.

There is a scene, a major two-by-four-to-the-face horror setpiece in Honeymoon, Leigh Janiak's auspicious feature length directorial debut that brings the aforementioned urban legend immediately to mind. It is, however, no mere diseased lung being extricated, it's something far more disturbingly insidious and downright disgusting. Most of all, Janiak (who co-wrote the clever script with Phil Graziadei) doesn't utilize an orifice as quaint as a mere mouth, but instead violates an opening of far more indelicacy, one which inspires, not only horror, but deep shame.

The picture opens innocuously enough. We meet Bea (Rose Leslie) and Paul (Harry Treadaway), a young, mid-twentysomething newlywed couple who drive straight up north to the former's legacy cottage for what will be a private getaway for our lovebirds to more officially consummate their union that's just been held before friends, family and God, the Holy Father.

For a good, long time we share the couple's giddy, loving abandon - getting to know them as people, but also gaining insight into their relationship. At the same time, we experience the subtle shifts in mood and honest human emotion that any newlywed couple will encounter, even at this early juncture in their relationship. As life will oft have it, there are, then, a few cracks in the fortification of their lifelong commitment to each other, but nothing out of the ordinary and certainly nothing to raise alarm.

For the most part, they're almost insufferably in love and we explore the most intimate details of their new and happy life together. (Yes folks, plenty o' sex twixt our attractive, talented actors.)

This is until, one night. As the couple sleep deeply after one of many vigorous sessions of coitus with no interruptus, a mysterious light begins to shine through their bedroom window. This is no ordinary incandescence and it passes over the bodies of Bea and Paul in a slow, deliberate manner. Rather than bathing them in a warm glow of peace and comfort, we feel like an entity is taking something dear and precious from them and that it will take all their fortitude to keep their love alive.

That, however, isn't the only thing they'll need to keep alive and it's from this point onwards that a slow, creepy crawly horror takes over and indeed intensifies. There's something in them thar' woods that's going to change their lives forever.

And it ain't pretty.

Honeymoon is one of the best horror films you're likely to have seen in quite some time. It is first and foremost a love story, but like many couplings in this genre, the threats on every front are going to mount exponentially. There will be times when they as characters and even we, as the audience, will begin to question our own sanity. Janiak displays a surprising command of the medium and her gifts to scare the living shit out of us are pitched to a very high, but sophisticated degree. Working in the grand tradition of the masterful Val Lewton, Janiak hits all the necessary marks of the RKO horror chief's checklist for great genre films: Focus upon the contemporary, focus upon humanity, focus upon the foibles of society, focus upon the insidious reality of the horror and if there's to be an otherworldly element to the picture, make sure it stays rooted in the relationships, dynamic and interplay between the characters.

And, of course, never, ever, ever forget that the best horror is rooted in atmosphere, so beware!

Beware the forest. Beware the night. Most of all, beware the light.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** Four Stars.

Honeymoon is a VSC and Magnolia DVD/BLu-Ray release. It includes a myriad of added value features including interviews with Janiak, the actors as well as a selection of promo pieces and various trailers.



PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS ABOVE OR BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER.

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DRUM - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Delectably vile MANDINGO sequel on Kino Lorber BRD

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"Papa? You put Drum with Elvira.
She's a purty l'il wench and everybody says she's in heat."

PREAMBLE TO MY REVIEW OF DRUM

As a young adult in the 80s, I first saw Drum on a grand double bill with Mandingo at the Epic Theatre, an old and beloved childhood haunt.

When I was a kid in the 60s, the Epic (back then it was called the Colonial) was a mouldy grind house perched proudly upon the rubby-dub stretch of Winnipeg's Main Street Strip twixt a benign Woolworth's and a fleet of hooker hotels replete with wood-floored beer parlours absorbing decades of piss and sputum. The cinema stood next to a pair of equally foul grind houses, the Regent and the Starland.

The latter sadly became a clothing store soon after first discovering these glorious homes away from home. No matter, though. I still had two sleaze-pits to choose from.

YAPHET KOTTO
GO! GO! GO!

LIGHT THE FUSE!
WATCH IT BLOW!
& BLOW & BLOW!
Sometime between the age of 7 and 8, I started to haunt these hallowed joints of non-stop motion picture entertainment. This was, of course, unbeknownst to my too-trusting Mom who made me promise that I'd never go to any of them. "Filthy!" she'd proclaim, her lips pursed in disgust. "They're full of dirty, dirty, filthy men and they want to touch your dinky."Mom's dinky-fondling radar wasn't too far off, only it wasn't my dinky anyone was interested in. The dirty, filthy men had their own dinkies to think about.You see, as the fetid aroma of cum and urine danced about my olfactory regions, I'd happily sit on tattered seats, the soles of my Oxfords adhering to the sticky floors whilst tell-tale slurping echoed throughout the auditorium, competing with the loudly-cranked front-speaker mono sound as malcontent, alcoholic veterans of the Great Wars were vigorously fellated by toothless glue-sniffing hookers. 

This was all an added bonus to eye-balling triple bills for 35 cents in cinemas that admitted anyone, regardless of any restrictions placed on the product by Manitoba's Film Classification Board.I wallowed like a piglet in slop as Hammer horrors, biker flicks, Roger Corman extravaganzas and other forbidden delights unspooled. Occasionally there'd be Randolph Scott westerns, Gordon Scott Tarzan pictures and for some reason, The Big Trees, a 1952 timber man vs. Quakers melodrama starring Kirk Douglas and Edgar Buchanan was slipped in every month.

DRUM is now on
Kino Lorber
BLU-RAY!
Don't you know?
By the 1980s, all my favourite grindhouses closed, but the Colonial, now newly-christened as the Epic remained the sole purveyor of cinematic sleaze in Winnipeg. Alternating between standard exploitation fare Friday to Monday and soft-core porn Tuesday to Thursday, I was still a piglet in slop, albeit a trifle more porcine than in those halcyon days of innocence.

Because I'd missed Drum on its first release, I was thrilled to be seeing it on a double bill, advertised in a one-column-inch newspaper ad with the oh-so enticing tag that proclaimed:

“And now . . . the BARE NAKED Roots”. 

NEW ORLEANS
WHOREHOUSE FROLICS
Accompanied by two esteemed members of the Faculty of English and Film at the University of Manitoba, Professors Stephen Snyder and George Toles (writer of Guy Maddin films like Archangel, Careful, and The Saddest Music in the World), little did we know that our lives would irrevocably change forever.This, you see, was truly an epochal event for all three of us in all our collective years of seeing movies, both separately and together.

It would, dare I say, bind us forever like Siamese Triplets in a Royal American Amusements travelling freak show. Mandingo was amazing enough, but Drum allowed us to reach some stratospheric pinnacle of raucous delight that will never be paralleled.


Seeing Drum on the recently released Kino-Lorber Blu-Ray brought it all back to me. As we-three sat in that rank pit of putrescence, a grind house that would have allowed the late, great film critic Manny Farber to feel like he'd died and gone to Heaven, it was indeed Drum which inspired an indeterminate number of blood vessels to burst and veins to pop open with geysers of lifeblood.

Mainly because of the brilliant performance of star Warren Oates (though Yaphet Kotto and John Colicos proved to be no slouches), it was essentially a coin toss to determine what was louder in the cinema that day, so very, very long ago. Was it our seemingly non-stop cacophonous shrieks, snorts, spittle-spraying guffaws or the wet-vac slurps from toothless hookers fellating old men? Good gum jobs, I guess, never die, so long as a prestigious venue stands erect to allow them their place in the world and visionaries like Kino Lorber to keep our memories so vitally alive with BRDs of movies like Drum.
END OF PREAMBLE

"What a splendid animal he'd be,
stripped down and naked."
John Colicos (right) as Bernard DeMarigny
has eyes for Ken Norton (left) as Drum
Drum (1976)
Dir. Steve Carver
Starring: Warren Oates, Ken Norton, Isela Vega, Pam Grier, Yaphet Kotto, John Colicos, Fiona Lewis, Lillian Hayman, Royal Dano, Cheryl Rainbeaux Smith, Paula Kelly, Brenda Sykes
Review By Greg Klymkiw

Drum is pure melodramatic B-movie magic on an A-level budget, courtesy of über-producer Dino DeLaurentiis.

Crisply directed by Roger Corman protégé Steve Carver (Big Bad Mama, Capone) and starring the incomparable Warren Oates, taking over the Hammond Maxwell role Perry King played so stalwartly in Mandingo, Drum was a movie so reviled that its original studio Paramount, backed off from generating a sequel to one of their biggest box-office hits of the 70s. DeLaurentiis simply set the film up elsewhere, but once the film was complete, its new studio United Artists was so embarrassed with the results, they almost didn't release the film.

WARREN OATES
A MAN AMONG MEN
THE ACTOR'S ACTOR
is
MASTER
HAMMOND
MAXWELL
of
FALCONHURST
Drum is certainly no Mandingo, a genuinely great film by ace director Richard Fleischer, but while its aim is not as high as its predecessor, it's still one strange, subversive, alternately entertaining and repellent motion picture. Though straight-up genre director Carver seems out of his depth with the layered, crazed and snappily written screenplay by Norman Wexler, it is the writing which holds up remarkably well. Carver handles the action with taut, yeoman efficiency and much of the film's cast handle themselves superbly - notably the aforementioned Oates, a completely psychotic John Colicos as a flamboyantly mincing promoter of Mandingo no-holds-barred fisticuffs, the sexy and passionate Isela Vega as the Madame of an upscale New Orleans whorehouse (reunited here with her Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia co-star Oates), the late legendary Cheryl "Rainbeaux" Smith (Lemora, Caged Heat Joan Jett's real-life drummer) as Hammond's precocious, promiscuous daughter, Pam Grier (Jackie Brown) as the ultra-sexy bed wench and the wonderful character actor Royal Dano as a vicious slave trader. Happily, Lillian Hayman returns from Mandingo as "house Mammy" Lucretia Borgia, or as Hammond describes her via Warren Oates's pride-infused line:

"When I was a l'il sucker, I gots my titty milk from her".

Master Hammond (Warren Oates)
admires his new bed-wench Regine (Pam Grier).
Less successful is the gorgeous Ken Norton. His line readings are generally competent at best, but he certainly handles the muscular aspects of the role (both the violence and the sex) with the requisite stoicism and glistening pectoral flexing. Norton, in fact, returns to this sequel as a completely different character altogether since Mede, his Mandingo role, saw him pitchforked into a huge vat of boiling, burbling and decidedly scalding hot water.

Here, Norton plays the title character Drum, a young slave whose biological (and white) mother Mariana (Vega) has had her black lesbian lover Rachel (Paula Kelly) raise the lad as her own son. When Drum takes a swing in anger at gay aristocrat Bernard DeMarigny (Colicos), he asks for a bit more than raising the ire of this foppish French-accented sodomite, DeMarigny is first insulted when Drum refuses his advances, then tries to castrate our hero in retaliation and finally murders Drum's "mother", the lesbian lover of brothel keeper Mariana (in case you've forgotten). Drum might be justified in pounding DeMarigny, but being a slave he has no rights at all and is most definitely not allowed to wallop a White Man.

Drum is sold for his own safety by his biological Momma to Hammond Maxwell. Mom Mariana is sorry to see Drum go. In spite of being a lesbian, she also has a taste for the dark fellas and her son - I kid you not - is the spitting image of the African Prince who impregnated her and she's been mulling over a tumble with the lad. It's a good thing Drum's sequestered to the mighty Falconhurst plantation since he'll avoid castration, then death and a tumble (or several) in the sack with his biological mother (though he doesn't know she is his biological Mom). Later in the film, Mariana even does get a chance to salivate over her son's brawn and makes a healthy move in the direction of potentially copulating with him.

If any of this is sounding even a trifle insane, don't worry. It is.

Blaise and Drum fight to the death
At Falconhurst, Drum rises to power by being a loyal and trusted slave. He even makes friends with Blaise (Yaphet Kotto), DeMarigny's former "fighting nigger" who was saved from castration after losing to Drum in the whorehouse fighting pit and is now safely ensconced on Hammond Maxwell's palatial estate.

This squalid slave-breeding plantation, introduced to us in Mandingo, continues to be as full of fornicatin', sucker poppin' and whuppin' as it ever was.

In fact, we're all the better for Warren Oates playing Hammond since he's a lot more rugged, manly and delectably salacious than pretty boy Perry King could have hoped to be at this point in the character's life. Hammond Maxwell, as first portrayed in Mandingo revealed considerable duality in terms of the slave trade. With a more mature Oates in the role, we do eventually get to see this side of the character, but also within the context of two decades passing since the events of that film. Hammond was a product of his time, culture and upbringing in Mandingo, but Oates seems to naturally build on his conflicted feelings.

Now in middle-age, Hammond is courting Augusta Chauvet (Fiona Lewis), a fallen woman in need of a husband. Hammond himself is in the market for a wife to tend to his wayward daughter Sophie and run the more ladylike aspects of the estate. At this point in his life, he would have preferred to marry a whore, citing their practicality and loyalty being more to his liking. He's happy enough, though, with an indiscrete Southern belle. "She ain't exactly a Ho' but she sho' ain't a lady neither," observes our hero who also admits to having survived two wives since Mandingo. Those of us who know that film intimately will see through this, but even without seeing it, Oates manages to convey that he's a man with plenty of secrets. The fact of the matter is that Hammond actually had three wives. Being a paragon of discretion, he coyly doesn't mention his first wife. After all, he poisoned her to death with a laced hot toddy after she gave birth to a black baby (whom he also murdered).

Ah, it's a tough life being a plantation owner.

Always emitting tastily grotesque dialogue with a completely straight face (but with ornery Oates-ian relish) he manages to sicken us with such aplomb so that every time Hammond opens his mouth and drops a demented gem from screenwriter Norman Wexler's brilliantly absurdist adaptation of the bestselling novel by Kyle Onstott, it's often impossible to not let loose a huge series of belly laughs. Such, though, is the genius of Oates as an actor that his rendering of the plantation owner does not descend into pure camp (though much of the film does and certainly a few of the actors do). He plays the nutty lines with a straight face and as such, they're so much the funnier and sickening in one fell swoop. As well, Oates brings the weight of his own world-weariness and (relative) maturity to the character's feelings about his slaves.

Perhaps because Oates clearly relishes the role, he owns it in ways that suggest he's perfectly aware of its alternately satirical and human dimensions. He even plays with the black comedy in daring, dangerous ways. When he first complains to his newly acquired Mandingo "house nigger" and "prime breeding stud" Drum (Norton) that he doesn't speak "nigger-ish" enough, it's within the context of rudely taking a leak in front of some woman-folk. The scene is funny as hell, but also funny in that, "What the fuck did I just laugh at?" sense of incredulousness one has at one's own reaction. As well, Oates manages to handle the ignorance in ways that also betray Hammond's inner conflict. "You do have some human blood in you. You ain't all nigger," he says to Drum. Then, with a hint of both shame and sadness, Oates skilfully renders a capper-of-a-line when Hammond says, "That's probably why you're gonna hate me sometimes, but that's all right. That's just the human part of you coming out."

When Hammond repeats his "you don't talk nigger-ish enough" concern later on, it occurs during a moment when Hammond is in anything but a jovial mood. Oates calibrates his delivery with sheer malevolence. He essentially embodies the role with a sartorial splendour which veers from good-natured good old boy to a mean, ignorant, vicious slave owner. As well in this scene, Hammond chastises Drum for calling him "Mister" instead of "Master". Drum's response here is cheeky and hilarious. Oates has a rip-snorting time with his joyfully incredulous response to this. "That be a joke," he exclaims. "I ain't never heard a joke from a nigger before." This is a "first" that clearly pleases Hammond. Most slave-owners would respond as if they'd been insulted, but Hammond is a whole different kettle of fish, especially as Oates plays him.

The genuine conflict within Hammond about what it means to treat human beings as slaves is ever-present. During one "whuppin'" sequence, Hammond orders 30 blows. Oates clearly conveys that Hammond is doing what his culture tells him he must do, but he's unable to carry out the deed, entrusting it to someone else and even more astonishingly, he flinches with every paddle-blow to the slave's naked buttocks. Well before all the blows are meted out, Hammond breaks down and declares, with a big whopping lie that he's counted out the full allotment, forcing the punishment to end long before it's supposed to.

This and other moments which clearly contrast Hammond's otherwise appalling treatment of his slaves are played by Oates with such truth that it's impossible to ascribe villainous properties to his character. Given the melodramatic nature of the film, his performance is always straight-up. Not only are we blessed with seeing great work from one of America's most astonishing actors, but it's also one of the reasons that one cannot outright dismiss Drum as pure exploitation, no matter how vile, over-the-top and, yes, insane the picture gets.

The biggest problem for Hammond is Sophie (Smith), his slattern teenage daughter who favours being serviced by her Daddy’s Mandingo slaves behind his back. When the young men do not submit to her carnal desires, she gets her revenge by lying to her pappy about indiscretions having been performed upon her. At one point she accuses Blais of "fiddlin'" with her. She explains how he tricked her into playing a game in which he tells her to close her eyes, hold out her hands and await a surprise treat. In mock-horror, she weeps, "There, there in my hands, Papa, was his . . . THANG!"

Massah Hammond needs his whores like a
babe-in-arms needs its Mother's Milk.
He urgently queries his wife-to-be:
"You ain't gonna start messin' round
with my poon-tang, is you?"
I defy anyone to not bust a gut over that one. It's funny and sickening, especially since we know what must happen next. A few scenes earlier, Miss Augusta professes displeasure over all the talk about fornication. Hammond reminds her: "You just gotta get used to the idea that nigger-fornicatin' is what Falconhurst is all about. If my niggers stop fornicatin' then we stop eatin'". He also informs his wife-to-be that he wants his slaves, "bucks"and"wenches", to "git out and gits to humpin'". He then offers this dire warning: "These are strong boys. Their sap is rising. If I don't give them wenches to fornicate with, they're gonna be after the white ladies and then I gotta castrate em."

By any means necessary
Alas, Blaise has repelled all of Sophie's advances, but the utter horrors of this world of subjugation are such that he will not be believed. He will be castrated and sold to the meanest slave trader in Louisiana. This, in addition to an ever-mounting whirlwind of inhumanity will eventually lead to a violent climactic slave revolt.

It's enough to recall the tagline of another famous movie from the 70s:

"Who will survive and what will be left of them?"

Believe me, this truly is one insane movie. No matter how much you hate Drum or love it, you'll know for damn sure that you'll have never seen anything like it.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ Three-and-a-half Stars

Drum is available on Kino-Lorber Blu-Ray. It's been lovingly, garishly transferred from a perfectly fine, grainy source print. It's also blessed with a detailed commentary track from director Steve Carver who lends considerable insight into the utter insanity of making the film. Canadians can get easy access to Kino-Lorber titles via VSC, Video Services Corp.


PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS ABOVE OR BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER. BUY MOVIES HERE FOR SOMEONE YOU LOVE! OR HELL, BE SELFISH, AND BUY THEM JUST FOR YOURSELF

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THE ATTICUS INSTITUTE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Chilling, original premise, great leading lady buoy Demonic Possession Shocker on Anchor Bay Entertainment BRD/DVD

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Anchor Bay BRD blows lid on possession.
The Atticus Institute (2015)
Dir. Chris Sparling
Starring: Rya Kihlstedt, William Mapother, John Rubinstein

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Dr. Henry West (William Mapother) has devoted his career and risked his reputation in the study of paranormal activity. When a promising experiment in telekinesis is exposed as a fraud, his already-underfunded institute faces extinction until a very curious subject is introduced to him. Judith Winstead (Rya Kihlstedt) displays considerable gifts, but as experiments upon her continue, it's clear she's not your everyday garden variety subject in this field.

Spewing viscous goo is always a treat, but
as per usual, it's only the BEGINNING.
Judith is possessed by a demon.

When the evil within threatens both herself and everyone involved at the institute, help from a shady military agency devoted to parapsychology is summoned.

The demon, now under the purview of these bureaucratic automatons, gets stronger and stranger.

When it's decided to control "Judith" and harness the demon's power as a secret weapon in the Cold War, all Hell (as it were) breaks loose. Don't these clowns know that the U.S. military and C.I.A. is never powerful enough to fuck with a demon from the deepest pits of Hades? Of course not. Scumbags know nothing.

Writer-director Chris Sparling has crafted one mighty strange picture. The premise is first-rate and the atmosphere is rich with portent and creepiness. Where the film errs is, oddly, is in its recreation of a cheesy television-style documentary on paranormal activity. I say "oddly" because Sparling does indeed capture the tropes of such programming perfectly, but in so doing, he does take something away from the picture's ultimate potential to slip into near-horror-classic territory.

Relying heavily upon a mix of talking heads interviews, different formats of video technology, evocative still photographs and portentous voice overs --as these programs so often do-- Sparling expertly sticks to his plan of action until he wisely manoeuvres the approach into straight-up narrative for the climactic moments. It's skilful and clever, but ultimately detracts from delving into deeper levels of character, especially in the case of Judith herself. We really get to know little about her, which is a shame, since Rya Kihlstedt delivers a throughly mesmerizing performance as the possessed and prodded victim. It's a largely physical performance and this handsome actress is clearly adored by the camera. Ultimately, she's placed into the symbolic position of being a victim, which is all well and good, but the movie only hints at who she was, what she went through and how she was indeed vulnerable to an attack from an unholy demon.

Save for Mapother as the conflicted, obsessed scientist whose humanity gets the better of him and the welcome appearance of 70s cult icon John (Zachariah) Rubinstein, most of the acting ranges from competent at the high end and godawful at the low end. As well, the tropes of the genre Sparling has chosen to ape, allow for way too many "You really had to be there to understand" interviews and none of it ever goes beyond the surface.

In spite of this, The Atticus Institute is just the right running time and seldom slows down enough to lose us completely. The premise is, ultimately, compulsively engaging and though the film is less reliant on visceral scares, the atmosphere of this dank, fluorescent-lit laboratory and the increasingly inhuman experiments upon the possessed woman are always nothing less than monstrously icky.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** 3-Stars

The Atticus Institute is available on a superbly transferred Blu-Ray (and, if you must, DVD) which captures the period look of the now-obsolete cameras and lenses which captured the "70s" footage. Anchor Bay/Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada have also created excellent front cover box-art that makes the disc a decent-enough keeper. The only drawback is a too-brief "making-of" which provides enough interesting insights from director Sparling that one would have much-preferred a full-length commentary track. The deleted scenes are a nice added bonus, mind you.


PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ORDER ANYTHING FROM AMAZON BY USING THE LINKS ABOVE OR BELOW. CLICKING ON THEM AND THEN CLICKING THROUGH TO ANYTHING WILL ALLOW YOU TO ORDER AND IN SO DOING, SUPPORT THE ONGING MAINTENANCE OF THE FILM CORNER. BUY MOVIES HERE FOR SOMEONE YOU LOVE! OR HELL, BE SELFISH, AND BUY THEM JUST FOR YOURSELF

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DESECRATED - Review By Greg Klymkiw - All those who watch this movie desecrate themselves, though not quite as badly as those poor souls who have to act in it.

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"Hi. My name is Haylie Duff. I am Hilary Duff's sister. I play Michael Ironside's daughter in this awful movie. Woe is me!"
Desecrated (2012/2015)
Dir. Rob Garcia
Starring: Haylie Duff, Gonzalo Menendez, Michael Ironside

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Haylie Duff's little sister Hilary never had it this bad. Never! Hilary, of course, was the star of the series and movie Lizzie McGuire and even had an exclusive line of tweenie-bopper clothing called "STUFF by Hilary Duff" at the now-defunct Zeller's department store chain. Haylie, however, has starred in a whole whack of dubious movies and toils as a Food Blogger. She might also be vying as the heir apparent to Sarah Jessica Parker's crown of Equine Princess of Hollywood.

In the thoroughly dreadful thriller Desecrated, Haylie Duff desecrates herself as Allie McClean, the upright, two-legged ungulate mammal heroine who drags a bunch of her obnoxious friends to an isolated country estate for a weekend of fun and frolics. Luckily, her Dad (Michael Ironside, looking a wee-bit embarrassed), is not present. Though his beloved wife is recently deceased, he's partying-down on his yacht with a bevy of sexy babes much younger than his daughter. This leaves Haylie and company in the trusty purview of caretaker Ben (Gonzalo Menendez).

Ben is a psychopath.

He decides to slaughter the youthful weekend funsters one by one in order to blackmail Haylie's Daddy into signing over the property to him, which he believes is rightly his. He believes this to be true because he murdered Dad's wife so the old lecher could score a major insurance settlement. Ben has also been joyously murdering anyone who comes onto the property, which Dad also knows about, but has kept his trap shut on since he doesn't want the truth about hiring Ben to kill his wife to ever come out. He promises Daddy Mike Ironside to leave our horsey heroine for last. Ben might be crazy, but he's an honourable veteran of the Afghanistan War and would prefer not to slaughter the whinnying lassie.

82 risible minutes pass before this horrendously written and directed "thriller" comes to an end. Poorly executed chases and killings, unbelievably stupid dialogue, endless wastage of meagre dramatic beats and detestable characters who we all want to die, manage to cram this pathetic excuse for a movie that doesn't even have the virtue of unintentional laughs. About the best that can be said is that somewhere between its 2012 production and its current 2015 straight-to-video release, the film managed to shed 24-minutes of its inexplicably lengthy original running time.

It's a tender mercy, however, since watching all 82-minutes will be time you'll never get back. Hopefully, its sheer incompetence will filter out of your memory banks in time for the last few minutes of your life and not a single image from Desecrated will desecrate all the images flitting before your eyes during the final precious moments you'll experience before death.

If God forbid, this does happen, it'll give new meaning to the phrase, "Death Be Not Proud."

The Film Corner Rating: * One Star

Desecrated is available on DVD from Anchor Bay Entertainment.

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HOUSEBOUND - BRD/DVD Review By Greg Klymkiw - Blood-Drenched Kiwi Kitchen Sink Horror Show now available via Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada & Raven Banner

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Being the tender tale
of a mother-daughter,
an amiable paranormal

investigator, a creepy Teddy
and a creepier social worker.
One right Royal Kiwi

Kitchen Sink!
Housebound (2014)
Dir. Gerard Johnstone
Starring: Morgana O'Reilly, Rima Te Wiata, Glen-Paul Waru, Cameron Rhodes, Ross Harper, Mick Innes, Millen Baird

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Kylie (Morgana O'Reilly) is a nasty piece of work. Since leaving home, the chunky, unkempt, greasy, tattooed and criminally-minded lassie has been through the revolving doors of Kiwi drug rehab clinics and courtrooms more times than she can remember. A not-unsympathetic judge working for Her Majesty's Crown in New Zealand has all the facts at his fingertips. Her latest escapade involved smashing into an ATM for drug money.

Deciding Kylie needs some stability in her life. albeit forced, he orders her to several months under house arrest in the countryside with her dear Mum (Rima Te Wiata) in the old country homestead.

Prison might have been better since the family home was never, ever a place Kylie felt comfortable in.


With its overgrown yard, gnarly trees, scrubby woods and a creepy neighbour (Mick Innes) to boot, Mummy dearest's musty, ramshackle, pack-rat-crowded old house is chock-full of too many bad memories. It's hardly conducive to a mentally healthy recovery, especially since Kylie's forced to wear an electronic ankle bracelet which keeps her from seeking any respite from the dusty claustrophobia of her childhood home. Adding insult to injury is the incessant nattering of her Mum and regular visits from a smarmy court-appointed slime-bucket councillor (Cameron Rhodes). Her only friend turns out to be an unlikely one, the beefy, amiable security dude Amos (Glen-Paul Waru), hired by the corrections department to monitor her incarceration.

Worst of all, it appears the house is haunted.

Luckily for Kylie, Amos is an amateur paranormal investigator and the two team up to solve the mystery of odd noises and goings-on. Needless to say, there's a whole lot more than meets the eye. Think of Housebound as an extreme kitchen sink melodrama (so popular in the UK during the 60s), that's infused with loads of black comedy, more red herrings than you can shake a stick at, plenty of muted whisperings, things going bump in the night, a surfeit of shock cuts and eventually, a few gallons of bloodletting.

Debut helmer and chief scribe Gerard Johnson, keeps the atmosphere thick with suspense and punctuates the numerous shocks with big laughs. If there's a problem it's that Johnson's script is too packed with red herrings and that it spins its wheels during the last third of the film. It's also a tiny bit of a letdown to discover that what seems to be, isn't, and is, in fact something else altogether.

Still and all, Housebound is an intelligent and finely wrought genre item. That its characters are vaguely plain, plain-spoken and a bit repulsive is an added bonus. If and when the movie is remade in Hollywood, it'll be scrubbed to a lily white and zapped dry of everything that makes it fresh.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***½ 3-and-a-half-stars

Housebound opens January 16, 2015 at the Carlton via Raven Banner and will be available on BRD/DVD via Anchor Bay Entertainment (Canada) in very nice home editions. The Blu-Ray contains an excellent commentary with Writer/Director Gerard Johnstone and two of the film's producers. There are also deleted scenes and a trailer. It's available on XLRator in the USA. It was the Opening Night Gala at the Toronto After Dark Film Festival.



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THE FORBIDDEN ROOM: ***** Review By Greg Klymkiw - Take a bath with Guy Maddin at the Sundance Film Festival '15 or @ the Forum during Berlin International Film Festival '15

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Marv (Louis Negin) teaches you how to take a bath in THE FORBIDDEN ROOM
1. Test the water
2. Enter bathtub
3. Scrub armpits
4. Scrub genitals
5. Scrub another
6. Luxuriate
7. ENJOY
The Forbidden Room (2015)
Dir. Guy Maddin
Co-Dir. Evan Johnson
Scr. Maddin, Johnson, Robert Kotyk
Addl. Writ. John Ashbery, Kim Morgan
Edit. John Gurdebeke
Prod.Desn. Galen Johnson
Starring: Roy Dupuis, Clara Furey, Louis Negin, Céline Bonnier, Karine Vanasse, Caroline Dhavernas, Paul Ahmarani, Mathieu Amalric, Udo Kier, Maria de Medeiros, Charlotte Rampling, Géraldine Chaplin, Marie Brassard, Sophie Desmarais, Ariane Labed, Amira Casar, Luce Vigo, Gregory Hlady, Romano Orzari, Lewis Furey, Angela La Muse Senyshyn, Kimmi Melnychuk, Kim Morgan, Graham Ashmore

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Ladies and gentlemen, it's time to take a bath with Guy Maddin in his forbidden room, his closet of tantalizing shame. I know I have on several occasions and let me assure you, it's most gratifying and pleasurably sensual for the mind, body and most of all, your very soul.

Do yourself a favour and hop into the stew with the Crown Prince of Prairie Post-Modernist Cinema and revel in the myriad of pleasures that motion pictures can offer: the fleshly, the ectoplasmic, the magically incorporeal, the visually and aurally celestial and, most assuredly, the cerebral complexities of all human existence in this world and the next, as filtered through the mind of the great Icelandic Satyr who worships - nay, attends to all the needs of that Bacchus who rules over us all, the most holy and resplendent gift that IS the great silver-embossed photoplay, the magic bestowed upon our world by the immortal Brothers Lumière.

The Forbidden Room is 128 glorious minutes you'll want to experience over and over and over again.

I must confess to having seen the film five times now. My fifth helping occurred precisely at the scheduled time of the first public screening in Park City, Utah at the Sundance Film Festival which, I was sadly unable to attend.

I did, however, attempt to replicate the joy of said event, in an outdoor soft tub, located at the northernmost tip of the penetratingly puissant peninsula dividing the moist Great Lake of Huron and its clitoral Georgian Bay, surrounded by the glories of the natural world, the horses, ponies, donkeys, dogs, squirrels, beavers, hibernating bears, coyotes, wolves and chickens, puffng fine tobacco purchased from my Aboriginal Brothers on their cheap-smoke-shoppe and hunting lands down the road, with jets of hot water massaging my rolls of flesh and every so often, just now and then, mind you, my hand not holding a stick of sacred, smouldering, oh-so natural leaves of joy, would plunge greedily into the bubbly water to find netherworlds of sheer bliss to eject geysers of joy in honour of the cinematic pulchritude before me.

As a matter of fact - pure and simple - I do not even wish to imagine how many more times I shall partake of this scintillatingly sudsy broth that celebrates the incalculable joys of life, shame, regret, sorrow, love, death and cinema, all those things which render our otherwise pathetic existence with meaning. Even one helping of The Forbidden Room can drain one more powerfully than several months of Sundays infused with the gymnastics of resplendent amore.

Yes, this is surely one drain we all want to be slurped into.

Let me try to explain why.

MAESTRO UDO KIER:
DEEPLY OBSESSIVE
WORSHIPPER
of DELICIOUS
DERRIERES

The Forbidden Room opens with an astounding credit sequence which stutters and sputters by like fragments of decaying film on nitrate stock (not unlike that of Peter Delpeut's 1991 found-footage documentary Lyrical Nitrate, unleashed upon North American audiences by Zeitgeist Films, who also gave us Maddin's Archangel and Careful as well as the similarly stylish work of the Brothers Quay). The imaginative way of placing gorgeous period title cards announcing key creative elements is an equally brilliant way to dispense with the ludicrous number of producers and the decidedly non-period acknowledgments to gouvernement du Canada et gouvernement du Manitoba agencies like Telefilm Canada and Manitoba Film and Sound, etc. (At least the National Film Board of Canada makes sense given the significance of Holy Father John Grierson's efforts during that historical period detailed in Pierre Berton's book "Hollywood's Canada".)

Once these are all dispensed with, the film opens proper with the John 6:12 passage:
When they were filled,
he said unto his disciples,
Gather up the fragments that remain,
that nothing be lost.

It's a powerful passage, to be sure, but its resonance, its weighty thematic substance and, in fact, the very Raison d'être for The Forbidden Room is clutched almost parsimoniously by John's recapitulation of Our Lord's words.

Though the film is comprised of several different stories, they represent fragments of cinema from days long-gone-by which, through the ravages of time and the lack of care ascribed to film preservation during the first half-decade-plus of its history saw so many pieces of time go missing without a trace, or indeed, pieces of time that never even existed, but should have. Maddin, not unlike Georges Melies is a magician of sorts. His film conjures up fragments of films lost, stolen or suppressed, brilliantly re-imagined (or rather, just plain imagined) by Maddin and his co-director Evan Johnson and the pair's co-writer Robert Kotyk. They have been gathered up, these fragments, these very ghosts of cinema, "so that nothing shall be lost".

Our first film (the writing of which is additionally supplied by John Ashbery) is a garishly coloured industrial documentary featuring a flamboyantly bath-robed Marv (Louis Negin) as our host on the journey to the joys inherent in taking a proper bath. Marv recounts the history of bathing, then narrates all the proper steps needed to take a bath. Twixt Marv's peacockish descriptions and asides, we're delighted with images of pretty young ladies (Angela La Muse Senyshyn, Kimmi Melnychuk) bathing each other, then followed by the buff fortitude of a male bather (Graham Ashmore) carefully applying Marv's instructions as he settles into a nice, steamy, frothy tub. The man is especially eager to get to Marv's most important instructions of all:
"Work down to the genitals. Work carefully in ever-widening circles."
The sensual digital manipulations within the steamily sopping froth give way to another tale, another film infused with the serous lifeblood (and yes, danger) of water itself. A submarine carrying dangerous explosives and rapidly depleting oxygen is stuck between a rock and a hard place as the pressures of the sea above will be enough to send the vessel into a massive eruption of its deadly cargo and though the necessary slow journey it undertakes to avoid disaster is the very thing that will guarantee another disaster, the lack of oxygen which could kill every man on board. Luckily, there is some solace taken in the constant serving up of flapjacks, which in spite of their culinary monotony, are found to be full of porous insides which offer added oxygen to extend the men's precious lives.

Roy Dupuis is a dreamy, hunky, handsome woodsman
searching, ever-searching for his lady fair.

When a dreamy, rugged and brave Woodsman (Roy Dupuis) appears in the sub, the narrative becomes even more tied into other films and as the movie progresses, its literary properties seem rooted in a kind of Romantic period use of concentric rings (albeit skewed in ways they never should be).

One story after another, either recounted by characters in one film and represented by another or told as stories within stories or, my favourite, as dreams within dreams, flash by us ever-so compellingly, taking us deeper into a liquid-like miasma, a ripe flatulence of wonder, a churning, roiling sea of volcanic lava - DEEPER, EVER-DEEPER INTO THE VERY CORE OF EXISTENCE AND CINEMA!!!!!

We follow Roy Dupuis's Woodsman into a cave of scarlet-furred-lupine-worshipping barbarians who have kidnapped his lady love. We see his infiltration into this den of murderers, kidnappers and thieves as he successfully proves his worth during several challenges including:

- finger snapping;
- stone weighing;
- offal piling and, my personal favourite;

- BLADDER SLAPPING!!!!!

GERALDINE CHAPLIN
THE MASTER PASSION
Le Dominatrix
des adorateurs derriere
When we meet the Woodsman's lady love, the film takes us into her mad dreamworld wherein she acquires amnesia and we're assailed with glorious images of native dancers, sexy crooners, and a delicious pitstop involving a sexy anal dominatrix, The Master Passion (Geraldine Chaplin) and then, an even more delectable pitstop involving a madman (Udo "Who the fuck else?" Kier) obsessed with bottoms who is then worked upon by an equally mad doctor who performs open brain surgery to slice out viscous portions of cerebellum afflicted with buttock obsession and climaxing with the ultimate fist-fucking as the doctor plunges his whole hand into the buttock-like brain of Udo Kier to attack the deep core, or prostate, if you will of the man's anal intrusions upon his very mind, his very soul.

There's the tale of a kindly bone specialist who operates upon a sexy motorcyclist who has 47 broken bones after a horrific accident in which she swerves to avoid a family of ducks in her path. Of course, the doctor must take special care to lay his hands upon her prodigiously in order to heal her broken breast bones and, in so doing, falls madly in love with her before being seduced and kidnapped by a bevy of sexy skeleton women who are under the control of a skull-headed medical insurance fraudster.

In DreamLand, Crooners Croon of Derriere Worship.

One yarn after another assails us and as they emit their fantastical glories, constantly astounding us as to how they dovetail in and out of each other - a tale of a mill keeper and his gardener, a tale of a train psychiatrist and his screaming patient and seductive ways, a tale of volcano worshippers always on the lookout for living sacrifices, a tale of a forgetful husband (Mathiu Almaric, that great French actor whom one can watch for an eternity) who ends up murdering his loyal manservant (Udo Kier - AGAIN!!!) to cover-up his gift-giving incompetence, a tale of the manservant in death as his moustache hairs dream about taking him for a final visit (or several) to his little boy and blind wife (Maria de Medeiros), a tale of a consular official and his gorgeous fiancé (Sophie Desmarais) and the man's obsession with a cursed bust of Janus which turns him into an evil Mr. Hyde-like defiler-of-women and the tale of . . .

Have I mentioned the vampires yet?

Oops. Sorry. My bad!

They're called ASWANG (pronounced ASS-WANG).

You will not want to take a bath with any of them - except maybe the ultra-sexy Aswangs.

Will the submarine blow up? Will the woodsman be reunited with his lady love? Will she be cured of her amnesia?

Will we be able to count how many times Louis Negin appears, Franklin Pangborn-like, in different roles?

Will we be able to count how many times Udo Kier appears, Eric Blore-like, in different roles?

Will we ever meet the mysteriously missing Captain of the submarine?

Will we meet his MOTHER!!!!!

Will we survive the mad, fever pitch of a climax, that flings us into the most mind-blowing trip of visual splendour since Stanley Kubrick's stargate sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey (replete with . . . colliding zeppelins)?

What HAVE I missed?

Have I missed mentioning that the editing of John Gurdebeke and the production design of Galen Johnson are both as inspired and brilliant as Guy Maddin's most-assured hand? Have I missed mentioning how astonishing the work of all of Mr. Maddin's collaborators is?

I hope not.

I, for one, will take yet another bath with Guy Maddin. We've taken so many together over the past 30+ years. What's one (or a few) more.

The Film Corner Rating: ***** 5-Stars

The Forbidden Room is playing the Sundance Film Festival and the Berlin Film Festival. Its worldwide sales are being handled by Mongrel Media International.

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ALYCE KILLS - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Jade Dornfeld rocks Repulsion-inspired thriller

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A girl and her Louisville slugger
A girl and her garburator
Alyce Kills (2011)
Dir. Jay Lee
Starring: Jade Dornfeld

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Twentysomething Alyce (Dornfeld) toils in a thankless office job, but one evening the offbeat beauty ingests copious amounts of drugs, booze and crazily shakes her booty with a best-best-bestie at a nearby dance club. The lassies end up at Alyce's, continuing their revelry on the picturesque apartment building's rooftop. Alas, Alyce "accidentally" pushes her pal off the roof.

Thud.

Alyce skedaddles back to her room. When the cops come calling, she opines that her BFF, depressed about her boyfriend, wanted to spend some soothing alone-time on the roof and, Oopsie, guess she decided to end it all. At this point we're wondering if the death was intentional or truly an accident. Who knows, right? Get a couple of ladies together on a roof, all hopped up on ecstasy and a few gallons of booze and it's anybody's guess at this point.

However, as writer-director Lee follows Alyce through her Generation Y emptiness, she seems to get ever-nuttier. Becoming a virtual sex slave to a sleazy drug pusher, she eventually dives into serial killer mode. Drugs, sex and killing fuel her and the ennui fades. Things, dare I say it, converge splendidly upon the tall, sharp point on the dunce cap of her existence, allowing her to always look upon the bright side of life.

Casting Directors! Are You Asleep?

Lee gets points for spending so much time on the psychological aspect of the tale whilst playing things straight enough, that the film never feels tongue-in-cheek, but is occasionally humorous (and in one sequence, knee-slappingly hilarious) and always in decidedly nasty ways. Definitely laced with black humour, and often bordering on satirical, he does a decent job of aping Polanski's Repulsion in a contemporary context and blending it with serial killer melodrama.

Saving most of the truly horrific bloodbaths for the last third of the film, we get to concentrate on Alyce and the creepy atmosphere of her world. Lee's screenplay injects a few decent twists and turns, plus one major shocker that surprised even know-it-all curmudgeonly ME.

Leading lady Jade Dornfeld is a revelation. She does indeed have a delectably skewed beauty and sex appeal to burn in addition to handling her thespian gymnastics with deadpan humour and mega-aplomb. Her round, wide face with cheekbones to die for, big ole penetrating almond eyes and a killer smile to rival Jack Nicholson's are assets she puts to superb use in the role of this oddball murderess. As for Dornfeld's output as an actress in other works, I have no idea why we've not seen her in anything of note since 2011. (She appears to have acted in one short and had a supporting role in what seems to be some kind of pseudo-pretentious attempt at a Zalman King erotic thriller.)

Alyce Kills was finished in 2011. It's 2015.

Where is she? Damn, the camera loves her and she's clearly a great actress.

Casting directors! Are you all asleep?

Alyce Kills is derivative of Polanski to be sure, but this is hardly the worst thing a filmmaker can strive for. His derivations are most favourable, indeed. Besides, Lee crams his mise-en-scene with grotesquery galore and takes us on one hell of a roller coaster ride of sickness and horror. Thematically, there are certain aspects which place it into the realm of feminist horror, but it never quite has the resonance of, say, the Soska Twins'American Mary. Well, it's not Lee's fault. Nobody, but nobody does feminist horror like the Soska Ladies. Most importantly, none of this detracts from Lee's picture. He holds his own very nicely. And trust me, you will never, ever look at baseball bats, garburators, blenders, butcher knives, cleavers and handsaws in quite the same way after one of the movie's genuinely great set-pices, a body-disposal-gone-wrong sequence.

So boil up some pasta, slop a thick red meat sauce over it, set up your TV-tray and dine in splendour as you watch Alyce killing: with nerve, poise, cucumber-cool determination and joy, joy, joy in her heart.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** 3-Stars

Alyce Kills is now available on a decent DVD transfer from Anchor Bay Entertainment Canada.


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HANNAH MONTANA: THE MOVIE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Genuine Big Screen Version

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Here's a terrific wifflegif.com rendering of the immortal Hannah Montana Hoedown Throwdown for thine pleasure
Le ART film du Miley
Hannah Montana - Le Film
Hannah Montana: The Movie (2009)
Dir. Peter Chelsom
Starring: Miley Cyrus, Billy Ray Cyrus, Emily Osment, Jason Earles, Peter Gunn

Review By Greg Klymkiw

When a middle-aged man wanders alone into a theatre full of 8-year-old girls and their Moms, then plops down front row centre, is it fair to automatically assume he is a child molester? What if this gentleman grew up in a simpler age when the likes of scrumptious childstar Hayley Mills delighted not only little girls and their mothers, but little boys as well? Though a lad couldn't admit he loved Hayley Mills, it was assumed his mates were equally enamoured with the sweet-faced star of Pollyanna.

Alas, whenever I walked alone into a theatre showing the likes of The Lizzie McGuire Movie or the Lindsay Lohan remake of Freaky Friday, the looks of disdain I'd receive from the mothers in the audience gave me a taste of what it must feel like to be of any non-caucasian racial persuasion walking into a Ku Klux Klan rally (only not quite as dangerous in spite of similar glares of hatred). This happens less now that I am usually accompanied by my own daughter to such extravaganzas, but I did initially find myself alone during an opening weekend theatrical screening of Hannah Montana: The Movie and once again I received the wary glares of Moms which said, loud and clear: “CHILD MOLESTER!”

It was, of course worth it, because I enjoyed myself very much. Having subsequently had the pleasure of watching every extant episode of the Disney series Hannah Montana on DVD (with my daughter, of course), followed by a few too many screenings of Hannah Montana: The Movie on Blu-Ray (with my daughter, of course), I recall that halcyon first theatrical screening of the big screen rendering of Miley Cyrus's Hannah Montana picture wherein she became my favourite contemporary child star.

The title character – much like Superman – bore two identities. By day, she was normal kid Miley Stewart, but by night she became pop music sensation Hannah Montana. Somehow, by merely donning a different-coloured wig, nobody – including characters who should know better - could seem to cotton on to the truth. Well, it worked for Clark Kent with a suit, tie and ultra-nerdy spectacles, so why not Miley/Hannah?

In the big screen version of Hannah’s adventures, her widowed Dad and manager Robby Ray Stewart (Miley’s real-life Dad, country singing sensation Billy Ray “Achy Breaky Heart” Cyrus) is concerned that his daughter needs a break from her hectic life as a pop sensation. Miley's wildly erratic behaviour (a far cry from Cyrus's real-life shenanigans these days) includes a public catfight with Tyra Banks over a pair of shoes in a swanky shop and an unexpected rift with her best friend Lily (Emily Osment).

Wise Dad brings his daughter back to their idyllic family farm in the sleepy White Trash hamlet of Crowley Corners, Tennessee. It is here where Miley finds herself re-connecting with childhood sweetheart Jackson Stewart (hunky, drool-inspiring Jason Earles), a whole passel of (no-doubt inbred) family and the simple joys of country life. Threatening her happiness is the muckraking celebrity journalist Oswald Granger (Peter Gunn) who is on to the Miley/Hannah ruse and is about to expose her to the world. As well, Crowley Corners is facing destruction at the hands of evil developers and only Miley/Hannah can save it.

Does everything work out happily? Well, it’s probably not a spoiler to say that it does.

Why wouldn’t it?

This amiable, pleasant and wholesome family entertainment with its picture postcard photography was subject to derision from pretentious critics, but the fact remains that the movie itself proved to be extremely engaging. Not only was it everything one would want to occupy the attention spans of kids, but it also fulfilled the very necessary function of promoting family values of the highest order. Miley’s Dad, for example, is a single parent, but not because of divorce, but because her Mom died. This is so much more palatable than parents who are too selfish and immature to put their kids first.

Miley Cyrus herself is terrific. In addition to being a talented comic actress, she’s got a great voice and truly shines during her musical numbers. She also proves that she’s got the right stuff to be a romantic lead. Daddy Billy Ray is an actor of – to put it mildly – limited range, but he’s perfectly pleasant in a down-home-corn-pone way.

The movie also features a musical number that rivals (I kid you not!) Luis Bunuel in the surrealism sweepstakes – a barn dance replete with step dancing AND (I kid you not!!) hip-hop moves and set to the song (I kid you not!!!) “Hoedown Throwdown”.

To this day, I am unable to shake myself of the lyrics:
Pop it, lock it, Polka dot it,
Countrify, then,
Hip-hop it!
I believe the aforementioned poetry will be etched on my mind until my last breath.

What makes the big-screen version a winner, is that it cleverly delivers a stand-alone movie that requires no prior exposure to the series. HOWEVER, once watching the series (yes, I must admit this to myself sometimes, if not the rest of the world), it's obvious how the same-said theatrical version provides oodles of connections for all those familiar with the TV show. More importantly, the film's makers realized that one needed to adhere to the heart and soul of the series, but ALSO up the ante with a whole new location, some new characters and also infuse the whole affair with the sort of big-screen scope that makes you feel like you're watching a bonafide theatrical motion picture as opposed to an overlong episode of the TV show.

Walt Disney’s Blu-Ray release of the feature film is a dream-come-true. It includes a gorgeous Blu-Ray transfer that captures the Tennessee locations and Miley’s exquisite, milky skin with equal perfection. There are deleted scenes and bloopers hosted by the amiable director Peter Chelsom (who, without talking down, manages a very kid-friendly approach to the material), several music videos, the usual making-of shtick and an equally kid-friendly commentary track from the aforementioned director. The cherry on this sundae of extra features is a how-to video on the utterly insane Hoedown Throwdown dance. My child loves it (and no doubt yours will too). What awaits are hours, days, weeks, months and – God forbid! – years of pleasure dancing along to this feature. In addition to the Blu-Ray disc, the deluxe edition also includes a DVD disc for portable players so your kid doesn’t scratch the Blu-Ray all to hell and – God Bless! – a disc that creates a high-resolution digital copy for iTunes, iPods and/or iPhones. It’s a great package!

If you’re not eight years old or a Mom or a middle aged man who loves Miley Cyrus, the likelihood of you enjoying this movie is considerably lower than that of a Muslim extremist wholeheartedly accepting Zionism. So do please enjoy.

Or not!

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** 3-Stars

Hannah Montana – The Movie is available on Blu-Ray from Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment.



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CORNER GAS THE MOVIE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - Canuck TV show on big screen, eh

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Here be a real knee-slapper from CORNER GAS THE MOVIE
Nyuck. Nyuck. Nyuck. Are you be laughing yet?
It be real funny, eh? It be Canadian, eh.
Come on! Laugh, goddamn ye! LAUGH!
Ah, fuck you, gimme a beer, eh.

Corner Gas The Movie (2014)
Dir. David Storey
Scr. Brent Butt,
Andrew Carr, Andrew Wreggitt
Starring: Brent Butt, Gabrielle Miller, Fred Ewanuick, Eric Peterson, Janet Wright, Tara Spencer-Nairn, Lorne Cardinal, Nancy Robertson, Don Lake, Reagan Pasternak, Karen Holness, Cavan Cunningham, Graham Greene

Review By Greg Klymkiw

The Canadian TV series Corner Gas was an undeniable smash. For six seasons, its ratings kicked everything off the charts, including big American programs. Its worldwide sales have also been through the roof. The show could probably have gone on for a few more seasons, but its creator Brent Butt bravely decided to pull the plug on a high note. The final episode drew a staggering three-million-plus Canadian viewers.

The ubiquitous billboards, ads, the content of said promotional materials and the general water cooler babble about the show amongst the Great Unwashed was enough to convey to even a gibbering gibbon that the show was a sitcom about inbreds living in some godforsaken small town in the middle of the Canadian Prairies. Happily, that's all I really knew about the show since I don't watch much television save for TV Ontario, a few select British and American items I'd catch up with on DVD, Judge Judy, Divorce Court and the Maury Povich Show. (I used to also watch the former CBC before it was ruined by an oinker with - ahem - "vision".)

Bottom line: I had not laid a single eyeball upon even one frame of the hit series when I finally watched the recent feature-length big-screen version entitled Corner Gas The Movie. I'm glad, though, because I really only care to assess feature films on their merits (or lack thereof) as feature films. Given the pedigree of the series, plus the fact that I'm a dyed-in-the-wool prairie lad who despises Toronto with a passion and has rued every day I've had to live in the godforsaken Town o' Hogs for 20 of my 50 or so years on this Earth, I was open-mindedly thrilled to see this movie.

Besides, seeing feature length versions of shows one loves, especially those made years or even decades after the original idiot box versions, carries way too much baggage for me and more often than not, I'm supremely disappointed. However, in recent years, I had the good fortune to see some family-oriented movies based on hit television shows aimed at pre-teen and tweener girls and enjoyed them so much, I ended up watching the programs on DVD quite happily with my daughter.

I was primed to love this movie, or at least, like it.

It didn't happen. I felt I was watching television of the worst order - a half-hour episode dragged out for over 90 minutes. Even worse, I did not laugh once. Not even a smile managed to crack my steely visage. At times, the movie was so painfully unfunny, I tried to imagine it within the context of being a Carl Dreyer masterpiece, but written and directed by Jethro Beaudine. THAT made me laugh, but alas, the fantasy did not transfer to the misery of having to watch Corner Gas The Movie.

75% of this movie's $8.5 million
budget came from public funds.
Money well spent! Good Job!

The tired narrative trudges along interminably and involves the denizens of Dog River, a town on the verge of utter bankruptcy. Water and power are in scarce supply and business is so bad that Brent (Brent Butt), the proprietor of the gas station, attempts to inject some life into the town by purchasing the local bar. Lacey (Gabrielle Miller) runs the town diner and has her own ideas on how to turn things around. She enters Dog River into a national contest to find the most quaint city in Canada. The prize is $75K, which, could go a long way to cover the town's debts and then some.

The problem, though, is that Dog River needs a whack of elbow grease to get it closer to "quaint". Lacey enlists Brent's Mom, the crusty Emma (Janet Wright) and a handful of others who appear to comprise the entire population of the town. Local layabout Hank Yarbo (Fred Ewanuick) is full of ideas. They're all stupid, but it doesn't stop him from trying. His stupidest idea is attempting to open a coffee-donut chain franchise which, if it worked, would put Lacey out of business.

The town's sole law enforcement is comprised of the pregnant Karen (Tara Spencer-Nairn) and the dopey, friendly big-galoot Davis (Lorne Cardinal). The town's shifty, boneheaded Mayor Fitzy (Cavan Cunnigham), has not only drained the town dry by investing the coffers in, uh, Detroit, but also dupes David into taking an early retirement to save the town some dough. No matter. Davis decides he's going to become a private investigator (not unlike Jethro Beaudine deciding to be a brain surgeon in The Beverly Hillbillies) whilst Karen goes on a mad spree to issue municipal citations to get her "quotas" up in case she needs to get a new law enforcement gig somewhere else.

Nutty Wanda (Nancy Robertson) appears to have the most moxie and entrepreneurial spirit of the lot when she opens up a booze can and casino in Davis's man-cave. It becomes so popular, it's driving Brent's bar into the poorhouse. The biggest threats of all come from the nearby town of prairie fundamentalists who wish to annex Dog River and a coffee and donut chain that wants to buy up all of Dog River's property cheap and turn the whole shooting match into a massive industrial warehouse. Adding insult to injury, a massive lawsuit rears its ugly head and Brent is about to lose everything.

While all this is going down, Brent's father Oscar (Eric Peterson), a dad-nabbit old curmudgeon is so obsessed with survivalism, he trades in his car for a horse and proves, as both a man and human being (and frankly, as a survivalist) to be about as useless as tits on a bull.

By the way, have I yet mentioned that the evil chain trying to swallow Dog River whole is called "Coff-Nuts"?

Are we laughing yet?

The pain involved in suffering through this convoluted maw of rancid folksiness and whimsy is enough to inspire suicide or, at least, a trip to Holland for a bit of the old euthanasia. The acting is either prime-time-competent or full of egregious mugging and there isn't one single funny, original line of dialogue, pratfall or story beat anywhere to be found in the whole dreary enterprise. About all I can say in favour of the movie, and I suppose this is something, is that I did not need prior exposure to the series to figure out who was who and what was what. This was all plainly obvious.

Frankly, though, if the TV series is anything like this movie, I'm not making any time to watch it on DVD and ultimately, I can only conclude how truly bereft of taste and/or brain our kinder, gentler, simpler Canadians are blessed with to have turned it into such a huge hit. It kind of makes sense, though. Corner Gas was probably a big hit amongst all those who elected our current Chancellor/Prime Minister. It's the only explanation.

As for Corner Gas The Movie, it's not a movie. It certainly doesn't have the scope of a movie and feels little more than going to the movies to watch television. Yup, the movie stinks, alright, but I will say it sure does have some pretty prairie sunsets.

Oh, and speaking of purty prairie sunsets, the thick-heads running the government of Saskatchewan (where much of this movie was shot) flushed a terrific tax credit down the toilet, effectively destroyed the local film industry, tossed out all the economic spin-off benefits of film production in the province and forced locals to move away (kind of like what was in the works for the Dog River denizens). I suppose one could consider the Saskatchewan Legislature to be little more than, uh, Coff-Nuts.

In spite of this lack of vision, the province of Saskatchewan opened their purse strings to the tune of $2 Million smackeroonies to help finance this muddy slough of a movie. As reported by CBC News in Saskatchewan, the inbreds running the province cobbled together a funding agreement that "includes a clause that the producers are expected to include 'positive visual aspects' that promote the province as a tourism destination in the story line of the movie. The agreement suggests 'sunrises/sunsets, unique vistas or locations'". Saskatchewan? A Tourism Destination? For what? To see the RCMP horse brigade parade in Regina?

What a bunch of yokels.

They've gotten exactly what they deserve.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: THE TURD DISCOVERED BEHIND HARRY'S CHARBROIL & DINING LOUNGE For a full explanation of this rating click HERE.

If you're interested in reading about HOW to make a genuinely successful big-screen version of a small-screen success, you can read my review from yesterday by clicking HERE.

Corner Gas The Movie is available on Blu-Ray and DVD from VSC. The transfer highlights the gorgeous picture postcard cinematography of Saskatchewan very nicely and it includes a bevy of extra features like gag reels (about as funny as the movie), a clutch of EPK-like making-of items and a thoroughly useless commentary track which is filled wall-to-wall with folksy shout-outs. Nothing I say here will stop the multitude of inbreds in this country from parting with their dollars to buy it, so they might as well order it right from here so they can support the ongoing maintenance of the website which, like the Prime Minister they voted for, has little but disdain for them.


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RED ARMY - Review By Greg Klymkiw - American Doc on Soviet HockeyIgnores Canada

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RUSSIAN PROPAGANDA
AMERICAN PROPAGANDA
Red Army (2014)
Dir. Gabe Polsky

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Gabe Polsky’s feature length documentary Red Army is as much about the propaganda machine (of Cold War Russia/Soviet Union) as it is pure propaganda unto itself, by placing undue emphasis upon the rivalry between America and the Soviet Union on the blood-spattered battleground of ice hockey competition. Polsky has fashioned a downright spellbinding history of the Red Army hockey team, which eventually became a near-juggernaut of Soviet skill and superiority in the world.

In spite of this, many Canadians will call the film a total crock-and-bull story.

I wholeheartedly admit, however, the bias of growing up intimately within the universe of world competition hockey. My own father, Julian Klymkiw, played goal for Canada’s national team in the 1960s, a team that was managed by Chas Maddin (filmmaker Guy Maddin’s father). Guy and I eventually became the respective director-producer team behind Tales from the Gimli Hospital, Archangel and Careful. Maddin went on to immortalise a ‘non-professional’ team from the wintry Canadian prairies in the Jody Shapiro-produced My Winnipeg. Maddin even featured a beefy lookalike of yours-truly wearing a uniform emblazoned with the name ‘Julian Klymberger’ (the surname being one of my own nicknames in years past and to represent my Dad).

To say Maddin and I were both well aware of the true rivalry in international hockey would be an understatement.

But one didn’t need to actually grow up in hockey families intimately involved with various Team Canada hockey leagues to realise that the United States was a blip on the Soviet rivalry-radar. The only famous match-up between the Soviets and America happened during the 1980 Olympics, when a team of veritable untested ‘kids’ hammered the Soviets (immortalised as the 2004 Walt Disney Studios feature film Miracle starring Kurt Russell).

Polsky’s film uses this match as the film’s primary structural tent pole, and completely ignores the historic 1972 Canada-USSR Summit Series, which has gone down in most histories (save, perhaps, for America’s) as the greatest display of hockey war of all time. His film also ignores, though pays passing lip service, to the fact that the real rivalry throughout the 1970s and 1980s had virtually nothing to do with America and everything to do with Canada and Russia.

I know this all too well.

My own father eventually became the Carling O’Keefe Breweries marketing guru who brokered huge swaths of promotional sponsorship to Team Canada over 15-or-so years and, in fact, worked closely with hockey agent/manager/promoter and Team Canada’s mastermind Alan Eagleson. Dad not only spoke a variety of Slavic languages fluently, but his decades as an amateur and pro hockey player all contributed to making him an invaluable ally to both administrators and players of Team Canada. To the latter, famed Canadian sports reporter Hal Sigurdson reported, ‘Big Julie [Klymkiw] often rolled up his sleeves and got his hands dirty behind the Canadian bench.’

I’m not, by the way, arguing the absence of my Dad in this film – he did his thing, promoting beer to promote hockey and hockey to promote beer, which allowed him to travel the world and be with all the hockey players he loved – but what I’m shocked about is how Red Army can ignore my Dad’s old pal and colleague. The film includes ONE – count ’em – ONE off-camera sound bite from Alan Eagleson.

Polsky appears to have made no effort to even interview the man himself or include the reams of historic interview footage of Eagleson that fills a multitude of archives to over-flowing. Eagleson, for all the scandals that eventually brought him down, including imprisonment for fraud and embezzlement convictions, was the game’s most important individual on the North American side to make Soviet match-ups in the Western world a reality, and to allow professional North American players to go head-to-head with the Soviets. (Though Eagleson went down in flames, my Dad always remarked straight-facedly, ‘The “Eagle” never screwed me.’)

How, then, can a documentary about Soviet hockey so wilfully mute this supremely important Canadian angle to the tale? Where are the interviews (new or archival) with such hockey superstars as Gordie Howe (including sons Mark and Marty), Bobby Hull, Bobby Orr, Marc Tardif and all the others who battled the Soviets on-ice? Why are there only mere blips of Wayne (‘The Great One’) Gretzky, most notably a clip in which he sadly refers to the Soviets’ unstoppable qualities? Why are there not more pointed interview bites with the former Soviet players discussing the strength of Canadian players? It’s not like archival footage of this doesn’t exist.

There’s only one reason for any of these errors of omission: all the aforementioned personages and angles are Canadian. Ignoring the World Hockey Association’s (WHA) bouts with the USSR is ludicrous enough, but by focusing on the 1980 Olympic tourney and placing emphasis on the National Hockey League (NHL), the latter of which is optically seen as a solely AMERICAN interest, Red Army is clearly not the definitive documentary about the Soviet players that its director and, most probably American fans and pundits, assume it is.

America? HAH! Canada! YEAH!
As a sidenote, there's an excellent series of DVDs produced by the visionary Canadian producer-distributor Jonathan Gross and available through his company Video Services Corp. (VSC).

The titles include Canada Cup ‘76, Team Canada 1974: The Lost Series, The WHA Chronicles, Canada Cup '84 and Canada Cup ‘87 and they ALL address this important aspect of Soviet-Canadian Hockey.

I wonder if Polsky bothered to watch any of them? Only his hairdresser, or rather, conscience would know for sure.

Full ordering info on the titles below review.


Even if one were to argue that the story Polsky was interested in telling didn’t allow for angling Canadian involvement more vigorously, ‘one’ would be wrong. The story of Soviet hockey supremacy has everything to do with Canada – a country that provided their only consistent and serious adversary, a country that embraced hockey as intensely as the USSR and a country, by virtue of Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau’s official policy of Canadian multiculturalism, that reflected the vast number of Canuck players who had Eastern European blood and culture coursing through them.

As a side note to this, it’s also strange how Polsky, the son of Soviet Ukrainian immigrants, ignores the fact that a huge majority of great Soviet players were ethnically Ukrainian. I vividly remember meeting so many of those legends as a kid and listening to them talk with my Dad about a day when maybe, just maybe, Ukraine would have its independence and display Ukrainian hockey superiority over the Russians, never mind the rest of the world. (Given the current struggles between Russia and Ukraine, this might have made for a very interesting political cherry-on-the-sundae.)

Ultimately, Red Army is American propaganda, or at the very least, is deeply imbued with American propagandistic elements. Given that it’s about Soviet hockey players, I find this strangely and almost hilariously ironic, which in and of itself, gives the movie big points.

All this kvetching aside, Red Army is still a solid film. Focusing on the historic and political backdrop of Joseph Stalin and those leaders who followed him, all of who built up one of the greatest, if not the greatest series of hockey teams in the world, this is still a supremely entertaining movie. Polsky’s pacing, sense of character and storytelling is slick and electric. The subjects he does focus upon, the greatest line of Soviet players in hockey history, all deliver solid bedrock for a perspective many hockey fans (and even non-hockey fans) know nothing or little about.

Polsky even interviews a former KGB agent who accompanied the Soviet players to North America in order to guard against defection to the West. Here again, though, I’ll kvetch about a funny Canadian perspective. Dad not only played hockey, not only was he a marketing guy, but he even squeezed in a decade of being a damn good cop in Winnipeg, and when Team Canada went to Russia, Dad would go from hotel room to hotel room, find bugs (not the plentiful cockroaches, either) and rip the KGB surveillance devices out of their hiding places for himself, his colleagues, players and administrators from the West.

I’ll also admit to enjoying the interviews with the likes of NHL coach Scotty Bowman and Soviet goalie Vladislav Tretiak; however, the most compelling subject in Polsky’s film is the Soviet defenceman Slava Fetisov, who movingly recounts the early days of his hockey career, his friendship and brotherhood with the other players and his leading role in encouraging Soviet players to defect for the big money of pro hockey in North America. It’s also alternately joyous and heartbreaking to see the juxtaposition between the balletic Soviet styles of play with that of the violent, brutal North American approach.

Contrast is, of course, an important element of any storytelling, but in a visual medium like film, it’s especially vital. It’s what provides the necessary conflict. With Red Army, however, the conflict is extremely selective. It is, after all, an American movie, and as it proves, if Americans do anything really well, it’s propaganda. Us Canucks here in the colonies can only stew in our green-with-envy pot of inferiority. We know we’re the best, but we have no idea how to tell this to the rest of the world, and least of all, to ourselves.

Kudos to Polsky and America are unreservedly owed.

They show us all how it’s done.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: *** 3-Stars

Red Army is currently in theatrical release via Mongrel Media in Toronto and Vancouver, followed by a February 27 release in Montreal and a rollout in the rest of Canada later in the year. It previously screened at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF 2014).

To read a full version of my essay

"Canada vs. America: The Politics and Propaganda of Sports in Gabe Polsky's RED ARMY and Bennett Miller's FOXCATCHER",

feel free to visit my column:

"Greg Klymkiw's COLONIAL REPORT (on cinema) from the DOMINION OF CANADA"

at the ultra-cool UK-based magazine "electric sheep - a deviant view of cinema" by clicking HERE.




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A GIRL WALKS HOME ALONE AT NIGHT - Review By Greg Klymkiw - How can a Spaghetti Noir Vampire Chick in Iran NOT be cool? Stunning directorial debut from Kino Lorber, opens TIFF Bell Lightbox, The Royal Cinema via VSC (Video Services Corp)

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This is what you could meet in lovely Iran.
Iranian Bloodsucker in a Chador
A Girl Walks Home
Alone At Night
(2014)
Dir. Ana Lily Amirpour
Starring: Sheila Vand, Arash Marandi, Marshall Manesh, Mozhan Marnò, Dominic Rains

Review By Greg Klymkiw

There aren't too many vampire movies these days like A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night. In fact, there aren't any at all, but now that this one exists, we can all repress the stench of the abominable Twilight series. What we've got here pretty much blows all recent blood-sucker extravaganzas away.

It's not only a genuinely terrific picture, but it's all in Farsi, the language of Iran, where, incidentally the movie is set (though, amazingly, it was shot in southern California). The movie is staggeringly original, yet at the same time, owes a debt of gratitude to Jim Jarmusch, David Lynch, Sergio Leone, Guy Maddin and James Whale.

Decent bedfellows all, especially for the film's director, a young Iranian-American lassie who makes her feature length debut with this moving picture graphic novel that could well have sprung from the loins of Frank Miller if he was a woman from Iran and wasn't a misogynist.

Nothing sexier than the scent of a jugular vein

The movie itself is light on plot, which is really no matter. Besides, story is more than one plot-point after another. When narrative can be imbued with the poetic qualities of cinema, so often neglected, forgotten or simply not attainable, then story takes on a richness that all the Robert-McKee-influenced product, machine-tooled by hacks, can never, nor will ever, attain. This is a narrative driven by style, theme, mood, character and setting.

And what a setting!

Bad City is practically a ghost town smack in the middle of some desolate plain in Iran, surrounded by endless rows of unmanned oil pumps seesawing ceaselessly and deeply into the flat, dusty earth. In the distance, desolate factories belch clouds of smoke into the atmosphere, the sunny skies blotted out by the filth of pollution.

A lone whore wanders aimlessly on the streets at night, hoping ever-so desperately that someone, anyone will drive by or walk up to her for a cheap fuck or blow job, anything, no matter how degrading will do to avoid being beaten to a pulp by her pimp for not turning enough tricks.

Daylight is murky, nighttime is murkier still, pools of light from high pressure sodium street lamps cast their eerie glow upon the forlorn streets, flanked by dollops of pitch black shadow. If anything, the subtext of the film is found within the shades of grey. Black and white are the pillars holding it all up, but the depth resides twixt those visual support beams of light and darkness.


Somewhere in Bad City is a vampire.

Not that anyone would notice or even care. Life is cheap. Bodies appear, then disappear. Corpses are tossed casually just outside of town into a ditch. The men are (mostly) pigs, the women are invisible and/or abused. The brutish sex in Bad City are pimps, pushers, addicts, drunks, unemployed, slave-class labourers and/or all of the above. Homes appear squalid, their interiors are even more squalid. There's little to do and pretty much nowhere to go. The one nightclub is full of ecstasy-popping babes and scumbags.

At times, we feel like we're in a dreamscape that could only exist in the movies. Of course, I never have a problem with that, but as the film progresses, we're creepily affected by a world that feels as real as it is fantastical. This is a country of waste, repression, rape of the land, rape of the soul and the clear suppression, or rape, if you will, of women's rights. Oil, the ever-present oil being pumped, seems to be the only life or at least, vigorous movement, in this somnambulistic, backward, backyard of despair.

Escape seems to be the only way to avoid death, or at least, a living death, but everyone seems too beaten down to even bother thinking about it. Flight at the end of a needle or the lip of a bottle or whatever can be popped down the gullet, all seem to be the easiest way to dull the pain and, perhaps, allow Bad City's denizens to imagine a better world.

ARASH VARANDI is HOT!!!
Arash (Arash Varandi) is a hardworking young (and almost ludicrously handsome) jack-of-all-trades who lives with his drug addict father Hossein (Marshall Manesh). The lad's prize possession is a pristine T-Bird which is snatched from him by Saeed (Dominic Rains), a foul pimp/dealer/loan-shark who takes it as a payment he's owed for a debt incurred by Dad.

Pops once had something resembling class, but now he's an addled bum, obsessed with the whore Atti (Mozhan Marnò) who reminds him of his late wife, but who, in turn, refuses to acknowledge his pathetic existence unless he's got money to buy her grudging attention and/or respect.

There is, however, a mysterious, exotic and gorgeous young woman (Sheila Vand) who slowly creeps about the streets at night in a full traditional chador.

She's no whore. She's a vampire on the prowl for blood. Her tastes, however, appear limited to exploitative misogynistic men.

Luckily for Arash, he's a sensitive lad, not deserving of having his throat torn out by her fangs, but one of the vampire's victims conveniently opens an opportunity for our hero to secure wads of dough, scads of drugs and the return of his beloved Ford T-Bird coupe.

SHEILA VAND is
pretty HOT too!!!
Even more pleasingly, the vampire takes a liking to Arash (in one of the most perverse meet-cutes, like, EVER) and he, of course, to her.

Why not? They're young, smoulderingly intense and, uh, HOT! So what if she's the walking dead? Living in Bad City with a drug addicted father makes him just as undead. Mais non?

Will love conquer all?

Will escape be a viable option?

Will Bad City become a distant memory?

The answers to these questions will all be found in this compulsively engrossing, gorgeously photographed (in beautiful monochrome) and yes, often creepy and scary immersion into the delectable depths of feminist revenge fantasy with a to-die-for soundtrack and a pace so hypnotic that filmmaker Amirpour might well be more than a mere artist.

She's a Class-A mesmerist and as such, watching the movie is to fall under her spell of magic and to emerge pumped, enriched and convinced you've seen one of the most original movies in years.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: **** 4-Stars

A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night from Kino Lorber is in theatrical release across Canada via VSC (Video Services Corp) with Toronto playdates at TIFF Bell Lightbox and The Royal Cinema. Keep your eyes peeled. You won't want to miss this for anything.

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IN HER PLACE - Review By Greg Klymkiw - One of the year's 10 Best Films as selected by The Film Corner begins its Canadian Theatrical Premiere at the Magic Lantern Carlton Cinemas in Toronto. A GREAT FILM that quietly rips our hearts to shreds. AN ABSOLUTE MUST-SEE!!! ***** 5-Stars Highest Film Corner Rating

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WINNER of numerous Accolades from Critic Greg Klymkiw
in The Film Corner Awards (TFCA 2014)
One of the 10 BEST FILMS of 2014
Best Canadian Feature Film: Time Lapse Pictures
Best Supporting Actress: Ahn Ji-Hye
Best Musical Score: Alexander Klinke
WINNER of numerous Accolades from Critic Greg Klymkiw
in the Film Corner Canadian Film Awards 2014
Director Albert Shin
Screenwriters Pearl-Ball Harding, Albert Shin
Actresses Yoon Da-kyung, Kil Hae-yeon, Ahn Ji-Hye

David Miller, A71 Entertainment,
Top 10 Heroes of Canadian Cinema
A daughter,
whose child
can never be hers.
A mother,
whose daughter
is everything.
A woman,
who comes
between them.
A baby,
that binds
all three
for eternity.
In Her Place (2014)
Dir. Albert Shin
Script: Shin
& Pearl Ball-Harding
Prods. Igor Drljaca, Yoon Hyun Chan & Shin
Starring: Yoon Da Kyung, Ahn Ji Hye, Kil Hae Yeon, Kim Sung Cheol, Kim Chang Hwan

Review By Greg Klymkiw

Now and again, I find myself seeing a movie that feels so perfect, so lacking in anything resembling a single false note and so affecting on every level that I'm compelled to constantly pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. In Her Place, enjoying its Canadian Theatrical Premiere at Toronto's Magic Lantern Carlton Cinemas is a dream, but most decidedly of the dream-come-true variety. This is exactly the sort of film that restores my faith in the poetic properties of cinema and how the simplest of tales, at their surface, allow its artists to dig deep and yield the treasures inherent in the picture's soul. When a film is imbued with an inner spirit as this one is, you know you're watching something that hasn't been machine-tooled strictly for ephemeral needs. In Her Place is a film about yearning, love and the extraordinary tears and magic that are borne out of the company and shared experience of women. And, it is exquisite.

A childless couple nearing the early stages of middle-age, cut a private deal to adopt outside the purview of an official agency, which, they're convinced, will be the ideal no-muss-no-fuss arrangement. The Wife (Yoon Da-kyung), having been previously afflicted with serious health issues, especially wants the world to think she's the biological birth-mother of the adopted newborn.

She and her Husband (Kim Kyung Ik) concoct a cover for friends and family that she's waiting out her pregnancy in America instead of Seoul. In reality, she's not left South Korea at all and is staying on an isolated farm. Her hosts are The Mother (Kil Hae-yeon), widowed and forced to run the sprawling acreage on her own and her daughter, a shy, pregnant teenage Girl (Ahn Ji-hye). For a substantial sum, this financially needy rural family agrees to give up the baby to the well-to-do couple from the big city. The Wife stays in modest digs originally meant for onsite farmhands while her Husband returns to Seoul to work. From here, she can maintain the optics of being away from home during pregnancy but also take an active role in nurturing the young lady carrying "her" child. The arrangement seems too good to be true and sure enough, complications slowly surface and threaten to scuttle an otherwise perfect plan.

In Her Place is director Albert Shin's stunning sophomore feature-length outing. Working with co-writer Pearl Ball-Harding and co-producer Igor Drljaca (director of 2012's dazzling Krivina and Shin's old York University film school pal and partner in their company TimeLapse Pictures), Shin and Drljaca seem to have pulled off another miracle in the relatively short life of their seemingly perfect partnership. Evocatively photographed by Moon Myoung Hwan, wrenchingly and beautifully scored by Alexandre Klinke, featuring a cast as perfect as any director (or audience) would want and edited by Shin himself with the pace and deep sensitivity that's reminiscent of a Robert Bresson film, you'll experience as haunting and touching a film as any of the very best that have been wrought. This is great filmmaking, pure and simple.

What I love about this movie, aside from its emotional content, is just how Shin trusts in the beautiful writing and employs a mise-en-scène that allows his actors to inhabit the frame (always perfectly composed) for the kind of maximum impact that can come from holding steady on narrative action and only cutting when absolutely necessary to spin things forward in subtle ways - parcelling out information so that we are allowed to take in both information and the affecting layers of very palpable impression and subtext.

A perfect example of Shin's assured direction occurs right off the top. The film opens with a fade up from black into a perfectly composed fixed shot of a well-worn gravel road. Flanked by lush, green trees, an unassuming, slightly worn farmhouse sits deep in the centre background, while a car makes its way into the frame and moves with purpose onto the property. All is swathed in a strange grey light from the overcast sky and as the car reaches a halfway point on the road, Shin cuts to place us in a reverse as the vehicle comes even closer to the house. It's as if the point of view was not so much from that of a character, or even from the inanimate house as if it were personified, but rather taking the perspective of an omnipresent observer. This won't be the first time Shin delivers such a POV. From this point and onwards, he allows us, the audience to participate with a kind of fly-on-the-wall scrutiny.

This second shot of the film is masterful on several important fronts.

In both the writing and staging, the camera lets action play out in the time it takes and in so doing, always keeps us guessing (in all the right ways) as to who is in the car, who the people are once we meet them as they exit the vehicle, get an immediate sense of character from how the two people are positioned in the frame and also by their actions and finally, a very subtle dolly back as the two characters move forward and encounter a sweet, friendly, but sad-eyed dog, chained next to an empty food bowl as it observes the visitors.

This image of a chained dog resonates incalculably as the film progresses.

Another important element here is that these two people become identifiable as a married couple because the shot takes its time and is so perfectly blocked. Even more extraordinarily, the shot allows enough time for one of the people to notice something in the distance and move towards it before the next cut.

This entire shot is a brave and bold stroke so early in the proceedings. The shot lasts for two minutes of screen time, setting the mood, tone and pace of how the tale will unfold, but also establishing how we, as viewers, are observers. And we are not passive viewers. It's as if we were actually in the frame, unseen by the characters, but participants in the narrative nevertheless, almost complicit in the actions of the story. Complicity is indeed a key thematic element at play in the film and Shin does not let us off the hook.

Finally, though, the shot also gives us the sense that this will be the story of The Husband. He is, after all, the most active half of the couple. This is essential at this point, especially since we soon find ourselves within an interior shot set back from a table where the Husband, his back to us, continues to be the most active character in terms of his domination of the conversation and by his declarative statements regarding the heat and stuffiness of the interior.

The notion of being able to breathe, to feel the sort of freedom this natural, rural environment should inspire, to not be hemmed in by circumstance, a lack of communication and/or connection to the outside world is also an element that is established and will reverberate throughout the film with great force.

The other vital component here is that the position of the camera allows us to see all three women very clearly. Though their interaction seems tentative compared to that of the husband, the very length of the shot allows Shin to establish trinity between these women and we're soon plunged into their story - which ultimately, the film is. The Husband seems a mere appendage or, if you will, the chauffeur. He gets his wife there, he even gets us there, but when his job is done, he's dispensed with save for a few key moments later on wherein he still, strangely, feels more like an instrument of mere conveyance.

The dynamic between these three women is so powerful, so telling and finally, so devastating, that Shin's subtle control of his film is at once invisible and yet always present because we are where we have to be for every single emotional and narrative beat.

In Her Place so quietly rips our hearts to shreds. We are included in the emotional journeys of a daughter whose child can never be hers, a mother whose daughter is everything to her but comes to this realization when it's too late and a woman who has come between them because her own desire to love and nurture is so strong and true.

Finally, it's all about a baby - a new life that binds all three women for what will be an eternity.

This is a great picture. See it.

THE FILM CORNER RATING: ***** 5-Stars

In Her Place enjoys its Canadian Theatrical Premiere at the Magic Lantern Carlton Cinemas in Toronto via A71 Entertainment.

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